One of my favorite sibling memories was when I was in my late teens, and my parents, brothers and sisters were gathered together remembering what growing up was like. It is one of my favorite memories because my siblings told stories about things my parents never knew about at the time the things happened.

My siblings are stair-steps: four children born from 1956 to 1960. I was born 11 years later in 1971. Needless to say, the older children were sometimes called on to babysit me.

I was a typical little sister — that is to say, I was a tattle tale. I remember my parents had a pop-up camper in the yard, and there were a lot of people over. The adults were in the house, and the teenagers were in the camper. I was standing outside the camper, banging on the door, begging to be let in. I promised I wouldn’t tell on them. Eventually, my siblings and the other teens did let me in. I saw cigarette smoke, and I was out of there — racing to tell my parents what I saw my siblings did. They weren’t supposed to be smoking especially not in a pop-up camper. It was my job to tell.

But there were some tales I wasn’t able to tattle because I was either too young or didn’t know any better. It was these stories that we were sharing oh so many years later with parents and child sitting together, laughing, as adults.

My brother Keith was the baby of the family until I showed up. And family lore indicates that Keith milked that baby status for all it was worth. My other three siblings swear that Keith never walked until well past his second birthday. Instead he had Mom carry him everywhere. And Mom did, which is an action that shows me a lot of good things about my mother and the type of mother she was that I’m thankful to have. It also tells me about the type of mother I am in comparison — I made my kids walk. Most every day I wish I was more motherly like my own mom was/is. Some days, like today, I wish I knew what to do, but I’m off topic.

On that long ago adult day of confession, my parents learned stories from the kids’ perspective. I learned things too — like babysitting their baby sister was fun when she WAS a baby (especially when it didn’t involve diapers), but it was not so fun when the baby sister began to walk and talk and tattle. The walking was especially a problem for Keith. He was a teenage boy, and he was supposed to be babysitting me. I, however, apparently had problems staying in one place and/or out of trouble. So Keith devised a solution — he tied me to a table and spread my toys out around me, and I reportedly played there quite happily: safe, secure and no longer needing constant attention. Keith had provided me with what I needed at that age — a safe place to play. It wasn’t a traditional play pen, but it was a MacGyver-style playpen.

My parents never knew about Keith’s unique babysitting technique until more than a decade later when he confessed. It wasn’t the only confession that day, but it was one of my favorites (and probably because it involved me too). The thing about being the youngest with siblings so much older is that a big chunk of their childhood memories don’t include you, and because they go off long before you, a lot of your childhood memories don’t include them either.

Years later, my sister Dee did manage to exact some revenge for my tattle-telling days — she gave birth to two children AND she lived close enough to my parents that I managed to see them just about every day. Dee’s children are actually closer to my age than my siblings are — Jessica is 5.7 years younger (1977) and Shawn is 8 years younger (1979). It was Jessica and Shawn who ruined my stuff and tattled on me. The upside, for me, was that they eventually went home. (And yeah, I am a bit off topic again.)

Or frankly, this entire essay is off topic if you consider the title — technology bites — although I did mention playpens already…

Or maybe it isn’t. Technology makes things easier. It also makes things harder. It makes parents consider an entirely new dimension of parenting.

You may recall me mentioning here a time or two a problem I have with my teenage daughter and the phone?

I mentioned it to my best friend from high school yesterday, and she basically told me: pot meet kettle.

Yes, I distinctly recall frequent phone calls to boyfriends. I think the very first time resulted in a hefty phone bill, and I am pretty sure I didn’t have the money to pay for it. My memory is hazy, but I am also pretty sure that the rope-tying sitter of my youth forked over the cash on my behalf. I don’t think I asked him to, but he did it. I also recall my parents putting guidelines on when I can make the call and how long I could talk. I was never able to talk for very long, and the calls numbered no more than one a day. And by “very long” I mean most of my phone calls didn’t last more than 15 minutes. Even when the boyfriend called me, my dad would still limit the time I could talk.

I DO understand phone calls to boyfriends. I know what it is like to want to talk. I just don’t understand why I look at my phone bill and see calls being made at 3:39 a.m. even if it only lasted a minute. Or the one night, why someone made a phone call from my house at 11:45 p.m. and talked for 96 minutes and still didn’t say everything that had to be said because at 1:21 a.m. — which is NOT morning by any stretch of the imagination – called again and talked for 43 minutes. Six more calls in the 2 a.m.-ish time before the last call began at 2:13 a.m and lasted for 44 minutes.

But it’s OK. It may have been a Monday, but it was Memorial Day Monday — no school. No harm. No foul. Right?

Except it is the most extreme example of what turns out to be almost a daily occurrence, and I almost wish that I didn’t have the technology to know about it. It isn’t even that she is calling her boyfriend — there are calls being made at night to friends too. Right now I wish I was older, my daughter was grown, and we were all sitting around laughing and talking about the good old days. Because at least then I would know that it was over, and it had worked; we had did it. We had raised a good kid who sometimes did things she shouldn’t have done. But she isn’t grown yet, and right now I’m not at all sure how to get from here to there.

I need to figure out how much of this is about my own phone issues. I need to figure out where this falls on the spectrum of things that teens will do. I know it isn’t the good. But is it the bad? The ugly? Or the small stuff? Or just the first step in a never ending list of bad and ugly? Because from here it is really easy to feel that way. Is it too much to ask to have children who are trustworthy and helpful? And I need to figure out: when did it become acceptable/expected to socialize in the middle of the night? Why didn’t I get the memo?

My concept of parenting is that it is my job to provide my children with a play pen –a place for them to be when they safely explore their world; the play pen should have the means of being happy and content within it. It doesn’t protect against everything, but it is there. As the kids grew, the playpen isn’t visible, but I still see it. I know where the boundaries are, and I see the boundaries grow and expand every day. (Even when I don’t want them to.)

I just know that right now, the playpen Autumn had yesterday is a heck of a lot bigger than the one she has today. This will be the first time Autumn will really notice that her playpen is smaller. In the past, as I made adjustments, she might not have even noticed, but she will notice this time. And she isn’t going to like it. Autumn’s new smaller playpen probably won’t have the things in it that make a 14-year-old girl happy. But just like when she was younger, she is going to have to accept it. Live with it, and finally figure out a way to move on to the next step — the bigger playpen. She won’t be able to do it by escaping it. She is going to have to earn her way out. This time, it will be up to her when (or if) it grows larger.

The power has shifted. She is now old enough to make the choices. She’s a smart girl. She isn’t a follower. Just yesterday, Autumn was telling me a teacher had heard she was dating the boy she is dating. Upon hearing this news, the teacher was reportedly disappointed because the teacher fears the boy would be a bad influence on Autumn. When I heard the teacher’s comment, I dismissed it. I know my daughter. It may be very well that she ends up being a good influence on him if he needs one. But I didn’t for a minute worry that this boy is going to be a bad influence on her. And despite the evidence, I still don’t think it is the boy who is the bad influence. I know my daughter. She is a smart girl. She is capable of making choices. She was not influenced. She made the choices she has made in the past month. No one else made them for her. Now we will learn how she chooses to handle the consequences of her choices.

So what does all this mean? I don’t know yet. But I do have one more thing to say….

Attention Boyfriend: Autumn is grounded. No phone. No cell phone. No computer. No iPod. No unsupervised time. No ending date in sight. If you’d like to contact her, call the house, and I will provide our mailing address. You can use it for this antiquated form of communication — it’s called mail, but you might know it as snail mail. It looks like you may need to become familiar with it. I know you want to ask how long she will be grounded. My answer is, “I don’t know.” The answer to that question is up to Autumn. And since she has recently shown I can’t trust what she says, she is going to have to find a way prove it with her actions while work on restoring that trust. It might be awhile.

Now, I must go. I need to figure out where I can find a reliable babysitter for a 14-year-old….

Thanks for playing.