In the Palm of My Hand

Riley bought me an iPhone a few months ago. Miss 4s and I have developed a relationship of harmony and outright co-dependence. At any point of the day I may not know where my keys or children are, but heaven knows I can tell you the exact location of my phone. It is a sickness. I may need a twelve step program. There is the distinct possibility that I am beyond all hope and fifty years from now I will be the grumpy lady at the end of the street that captures 30 second videos of the hooligan neighbor children as they run across my lawn. Evidence that, no matter what little Timmy claims, he did in fact break my lawn gnome.

911: Yes, what is the problem?

My next door neighbor: Could you please come check on Ol' Megan Bingham? She hasn't posted any angry pictures or videos to her social media accounts for a few days now.

911: I will send someone right over.

And then they will find me dead clutching my phone, my last instagram photo still waiting to be filtered. It isn't a pretty picture. (Literally. Who likes a #nofilter picture? No one, I tell you. No one.)

Riley makes fun of my obsession fairly often. And he is right to do so. Many things ridiculous have spawned from our society's use of handheld technology. The list includes bright burning human achievements such as Angry Birds, #YOLO, the Ryan Gosling Meme, Farmville, and every single one of Kanye West's tweets. Quite an, errrr, exalted group.

Some good has come from my little Apple friend. I take more pictures of our lives than I ever have. Moments I would have forgotten by the end of the week are now captured and kept safe. And that might be worth all the bad hashtags in the world. Maybe.

Some of my favorite moments

Man. I love these people. And my iPhone.