I often learn things unintentionally. Indeed, the most important lessons I’ve ever learned have tended to be incidental to some other, unrelated activity. This time my intention was simply to have a pleasant, Sunday breakfast with my 15 year old daughter, and on this particular Sunday we both had the time and inclination to prepare pancakes and bacon. Our division of labor was such that I made the pancakes and she the bacon. A good mood prevailed and we went about our tasks, happily listening to Pandora on the blue tooth speaker.

By design we finished cooking at the same time and sat down to enjoy the fruits of our labor. It was then that my daughter, the all-knowing fifteen year old, began to school me on my rightful place in the universe.

“So what’s your Snapchat address?” I asked innocently enough, or so I thought.

“Um, why do you want my Snapchat address?” She asked, lifting her gaze cautiously from her pancakes and appearing to tense up ever so slightly. “You’re too old for Snapchat.”

“No I’m not.” I protested lightly, but not completely confident in my position. Was I too old for Snapchat? Does the fact that I am three times older than my daughter preclude me from Snapchatting? I wasn’t sure. What I was sure of, however, was that I didn’t need her to give me her Snapchat address – her step-sister had already slipped it to me in a text. At this point I was just seeing if I could get HER to give it me.  “Really. I don’t think I’m too old for Snapchat.”

“Yeah, Dad, your are. What would you do on Snapchat anyway? Take pictures of old things and send them to me and your other two friends?” She said haughtily, like she had just been named Princess for a Day.

“Maybe.” I said somewhat defensively. “But it would always be funny because, you know, I’m funny.”

“No, Dad, you only think you’re funny.” She said this but I imagine she knew it wasn’t true. I regularly had her in stitches.

“What about Instagram?” I queried.

“Nope.”

“What about Twitter? Can I use Twitter? I think there is actually a ton of ‘old’ people on Twitter.”

“No, Dad.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t follow me on Twitter?”

“Nope.”

“What about Vine? Can I Vine?”

“Stop.”

“What about Tumblr? What if I have a hankering to Tumbl?

“C’mon, Dad. I’m trying to eat.”

“Facebook?”

“Fine, Dad. You can use Facebook. You can use anything that starts with Face.” She responded dismissively as she grabbed another slice of bacon from the plate positioned between us. And then I saw a light bulb go on over her head. “You know, though, that you probably shouldn’t use any technology that existed before I was born.”

“That’s the technological cutoff? Your birth date? It seems rather arbitrary, doesn’t it?”

“No, because all those things are for kids, and I’m a kid.” She said, in the process proving she knows what ‘arbitrary’ means. Go Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts!

“Ok. Let’s say I go along with your little scheme to prevent me from using modern technology. If I follow your rule then you have to follow mine.”

“What’s your rule?” She asked distractedly. She had her phone in her lap, a no-no during meals, and was probably checking out a Snapchat or Instagram from one of her friends.

“My rule is that you don’t get to use any technology that was invented before 2000.” Which, of course, is the year she was born, albeit quite late in the year, so there could actually be quite a few things invented before the moment of her birth, but I wasn’t going to split hairs.

“That’s fine. But my rule will be a lot harder on you than your rule is on me.” She was back to haughty.

“Will it?” I asked, returning her haughtiness.

“Definitely. There was no such thing as a smart phone before I was born.” She was confident in her position, as fifteen year olds are wont to be. (I don’t think she knows what ‘wont’ means, but I’m not sure. She reads a lot.)

“True, but there was such a thing as a cell phone.” I countered.

“I know, Dad, but there were no smart phones.”

It occurred to me that maybe the CIA or James Bond must have had something like a smart phone in the 1990’s but, again, wasn’t going to split hairs.

“That’s probably true,” unless James Bond had one, “but by my rule you can’t use the cell phone function of your smart phone.”

“That’s fine. I always text anyway.” She bantered as she poured more syrup on a pancake. Hmmm….I was going to have to put my thinking cap on.

“What about TV? TV is over sixty years old.”

“No problem. I’ll watch Netflix on my phone.”

“What about the wheel?” I realize I was grasping, but those damn phones are such overachievers!

“What about it?”

“It was invented before you were born. Before Jesus, even. So you can’t use it.”

“I walk to school, Dad.” Damn it! Her school is only a 10 minute walk from our building. “And if you want me to get anywhere faster you’ll have to break your own rule and drive me.” Damn it!

What to do? What to do? Ok, fire was invented BEFORE she was born, but we no longer need it to cook or keep warm. As well, the oven and microwave were invented before 2000, but I suspect she knew I wasn’t going to let her starve. And I wasn’t going to let her go without shoes or clothing, both of which, I imagine, were invented sometime around the same time as fire.

My mind raced as I attempted to think of something her smart phone couldn’t do, or at least something it couldn’t do that she would care about. The damn thing played music, games and TV. It kept time when she played piano and could download books. It is a calculator, weatherman, reporter, and camera. It can navigate her around town and wake her up in the morning. Hell, the only thing it couldn’t do was feed her.

But wait! There is one more thing her phone can’t do.

“Um, honey?”

“Yes, Father?” She asked, for some reason affecting a slight British School Girl accent.

“How much power do you have left on your phone?” I was feeling devious and triumphant as I watched the formerly-snide-but-now-humbled light bulb rekindle above her head.

“Really, Dad, electricity?”

“Yes! Electricity!”

“Fine. I’ll give you my Snapchat address.” She said as she grabbed the last piece of bacon.