Driving home with GoofBoy, he asked for my iPad to play with while we drove. The drive was going to last less then five minutes and I couldn’t reach it easily so I said no.
“Child abuse!” he shouted. “I’m calling bubbe!”
My mom was a social worker who served children in foster care. (Bubbe is the Yiddish word for grandmother and implies an old woman with a shawl over her head. I pressed for the kids to call my parents bubbe and its masculine equivalent, zayde. The former took, my father fought off the latter. My youthful and professional mother hates this.)
“You want to tell her,” I asked.
“Yeah, so she can report you.”
I passed my phone back to him and he called her.
“Bubbe it’s your grandson. I want to report a child abuse incident!”
“Really,” my mom answered (it was on speakerphone), “What happened?”
“Your son," he began, "Won’t let me play on his iPad while we drive and I’m getting bored,” he explained.
“Is it child abuse?” I asked hopefully, “Will you have him taken away?”
“I’m afraid not,” my mom replied, “and while it is nice chatting, I was just out the door. Sorry kid, but being bored isn't child abuse, it's part of life.”
“Darn,” I said, “I’m sure a few weeks away from my precious son would help me reconsider my miscreant ways.”
“It’s ok bubbe I’ve got his phone now. It has games too.”