Somebody in the house demands “Papa ta” everytime he sees my phone in idle mode. The kid means to talk to Papa. What was I to do?
These days, it’s so hard to get through two sentences over the phone to my husband. Or even to officemates and friends because dear son would instantly think it’s Papa at the other end. And then that rascal named Matt would try to reach and snatch my phone and say “Papa…Pops...Hallo” even before he could grasp it.
I always try to dodge from his attempts but there are just times. Times when I’m on the phone with hubby, times when I get soft because I know he surely sorely misses Papa. I’d be damned but I’m not that tough cookie who can stand seeing excitement, longing and that wanting-Papa look in my boy’s eyes, without doing anything about it.
But tell you what, I’m really not so keen on letting Matt use my mobile phone. Any cellphone, for that matter. I don’t completely trust its safety, radiation-wise. No matter how much I try to be all-accepting, all-believing, there’s just this niggling doubt that refuses to get squashed.
Maybe I’m the only one who works in the telecoms who is cagey on letting her kid use a cellphone. I’m cagey, I’m crazy, I’m wary. Maybe I am overly, overly, overly cautious. No. not maybe. I AM overly, overly, overly cautious. I’m crazy, I know. It’s okay if it's me, but not if it's my son. Don’t ask me why.
For someone who works under radiating microwaves 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. It’s funny. I’m funny. Certainly ridiculous.
This is my son's phone. An LG model, previously displayed at our business office as sample. Identical to the original thing, except for the LCD screen, battery and circuits. Scale 1:1. Almost real.
The picture on its screen is real, that's Papa. I taped it a couple of days ago. The best I can do.