Iphone contract with son calls for 2nd thoughts

My son turned 14 last week, and I gave him an iPhone. (Why, yes, I the World’s Coolest Mother — well, until I do something decidedly uncool, which, in the eyes of the aforementioned teenager, is about a dozen times every 24 hours. As you read this, my reign likely is over.)

I gave him a 48-hour grace period in which I mostly saw the top of his head. He drowned himself in hundreds of text messages, bought out the iTunes store and watched every video on YouTube.

Then I sat down and nudged him, and when Sawyer looked up at me, blearyeyed, I told him we needed to talk about his new iPhone.

I explained how last Christmas, a 13year-old boy in Sandwich, Mass., got an iPhone from his parents and, along with it, a contract. No, not the one that came with the phone, but an 18-point agreement written by the boy’s mother that outlined the rules for using his new phone.

Sawyer groaned. He could see where this was heading.

The mother wrote about the contract on her blog, and the piece was picked up by the Huffington Post. It was one of those things that moms post on Facebook and e-mail to all their friends. It went viral in days.

The contract said, among other things, that the boy had to be polite. Had to pay to replace the phone if he lost it. No looking for Internet porn. No sexting. And he had to hand the phone over every night at the civilized hour of 7:30. It was sweet, really, a parent’s tool

to make sure her son stayed more in touch with life than with technology.

“I don’t want to sign a contract, Mom,” Sawyer said, leaning back on the couch, his eyes automatically starting to roll back in his head. “Just listen,” I said. I pulled the contract up on iPhone, ready to begin negotiations. But as soon as I began to read it out loud, I knew it wouldn’t work.

I started to crack up, and then we were both laughing.

Because both he and I know the worst offender in our house is me.

For instance, there’s the spot in the contract that says,

On Sunday at dinner with friends, I picked up my smartphone (from next to my fork on the table) to look up the address of a place we were discussing. Then I quickly checked Facebook.

Glancing at Sawyer sitting next to me, I could see he was watching a video on his phone under the table.

“Put it away, son,” I said quietly.

He turned to me, eyes wide, mouth open in disbelief.

were on your phone,” he protested.

was looking up an address,” I said indig- nantly.

“You were on Facebook. I saw you!” Busted. OK. Let’s try this one, from the mom’s contract:

Fair enough, since he knows mine. It’s handy when I forget it.

Hmmm. Well, not going to work, considering he only has a cellphone so I can get hold of him when I want to.

Or that he would not want his mother to read.

“Don’t take a zillion pictures and videos. There is no need to document everything. Live your experiences. They will be stored in your memory for eternity.”

I should talk, right? Every funny or charming thing he does gets captured on my iPhone. Smile. Oh, do that again! He probably can’t remember what I look like without this rectangle in the bright pink Otter Box covering part of my face as I look at him through the screen.

It’s a phone. He should take it with him — particularly if he might need a ride home — and learn to resist the temptation to constantly check it.

“Download music that is new or classic or different than the millions of your peers that listen to the same exact stuff. Your generation has access to music like never before in history. Take advantage of that gift. Expand your horizons.”

Who am I to tell him what to download? I downloaded Helen Reddy. As my brother Danny pointed out, likely not even Helen Reddy has Helen Reddy on her phone. Sawyer’s taste in music is probably better than mine.

He can take it to school. With his teachers’ permission, he can find that citation for his human-rights report or figure the rate of speed using the scientific calculator app.

“Play a game with words or puzzles or brain teasers every now and then.”

Never mind that the only game on my iPhone is Centipede.

This probably sounds hypocritical coming from the woman who waits for him in the parking lot with her face lit by her phone’s screen.

“Wonder without Googling.”

He can Google the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The big things Sawyer wonders about aren’t on Google. He’ll discover those things for himself.

I tell Sawyer that we’ll keep it simple: The rules that applied to his old cellphone apply to this one, as do rules for using the Internet at home.

In the meantime, thinking about how I want Sawyer to use his phone has made me rethink how I use mine.

Because when Sawyer’s not looking at his iPhone, he’s watching me.

I want to watch what Sawyer accomplishes, with my eyes and heart, not just with my camera.

I want to not think about my phone in the car. No texting even at stoplights, no asking the person in the passenger seat to answer it. I leave it zipped in my purse.

I’m going to ask him to put his phone down sometimes, and I’ll put mine down more often, too. We need to see more of each other’s eyes and less of the tops of each other’s heads.

For that reason, I like that mom’s iPhone contract. Even if Sawyer rolls his eyes, I’ll use this part: love you. I hope you enjoy your awesome new iPhone.” xoxoxo, Mom