Pocket and purse dial out­done by the tod­dler dial

Lori Borgman finds the funny in ev­ery­day life, writ­ing from the heart­land of the US. Now, if she could just find her car keys…

Friday - - Humour - Tell us what you think, email us at fri­day@gulfnews.com

The top two in­ad­ver­tent cell phone calls are the pocket dial and the purse dial. I’d like to add a third – the I’m-car­ry­ing-in-gro­ceriesand-my-phone-is-un­der-my-chin dial. I’ve called a neigh­bour so many times while car­ry­ing in gro­ceries, it’s a won­der she doesn’t ask me to take her out of my phone – or stop go­ing to the store so of­ten.

Re­cently, we’ve been re­cip­i­ents of the tod­dler dial. I an­swer the phone and there’s noth­ing but muf­fled breath­ing, the sort that hap­pens when you’re a tod­dler with a cold and no abil­ity or in­ter­est in blow­ing your own nose.

“Hello, Sweetie. Did you mean to call Grandma? She loves when you call!”

Sweetie doesn’t have much to say. He’s just breath­ing. “Hello? Sweetie? Say some­thing.” Sweetie gig­gles then burst into ma­ni­a­cal laugh­ing.

Why not? The kid’s in pos­ses­sion of his dad’s cell phone, push­ing but­tons like crazy, lis­ten­ing to adults shout, “Hello? Hello? Hello?” and the grownups who birthed him, don’t have a clue what he’s up to. Score one for the tod­dler. Then comes a thud and clat­ter as the phone hits the floor, prob­a­bly dis­ap­pear­ing into a mound of plas­tic di­nosaurs. Maybe they’ll find the phone when some­one needs a T. rex.

Sweetie calls back and breathes some more.

“I like talk­ing to you, Sweetie, but Grandma is busy,” I say. “Why don’t you take the phone to Daddy?” Cute kid. I hang up. Sweetie calls again. One tod­dler dial is cute, two tod­dler di­als are fine, three tod­dler di­als bor­der on tele­mar­ket­ing. “Take the phone to your Dad. NOW!” The tod­dler dial is on a par with a mother of a tod­dler call­ing you about some­thing and abruptly scream­ing, “Nooooo! I have to go!” and hang­ing up.

You hope it’s not a bro­ken bone or in­volves a lot of bleed­ing. You don’t ex­actly go on about busi­ness as usual be­cause you’re won­der­ing if the lit­tle one is on the way to the ER. You’d call back but maybe she’s still on the phone with paramedics. Maybe she’s driv­ing the kid to the hos­pi­tal her­self.

The mother of the tod­dler fi­nally calls back and says it was “noth­ing”. Some­one dumped one of those half-ton size bags of Veg­gie Straws.

“Noth­ing” just took six months off my life.

Mean­while I de­cide to call Sweetie with the stuffed up nose back, hop­ing

I an­swer the phone and there’s noth­ing but MUF­FLED BREATH­ING on the OTHER END, the sort that hap­pens when you’re a TOD­DLER with a cold and no abil­ity or in­ter­est in blow­ing your own nose

to speak to some­one in charge. No luck. Clearly, Sweetie is still in charge and is now screen­ing calls from ir­ri­ta­ble Grandma.

Later that evening my daugh­ter-in­law calls and says, “I see we missed a cou­ple of calls from you ear­lier. Ev­ery­thing OK?”

“Great,” I say. “Just wanted to make sure all of you were still alive and breath­ing.”

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