The Case of the Codebreakers

The Case of the Codebreakers

‘The Marion Mom’ By Dorothy Wilson

Technology, restrictions, and why my kids don’t have smartphones As a child, I could tell you more about grammar rules or Shakespeare than I could about, well, pretty much any celebrity.

I tried to be a normal kid — really, I did. I bought a Nintendo with my own money when I was 12, but I played it far too often for my parents’ taste. So they disconnected it and hid it in their closet.

Yes, I knew it was there, but I didn’t go dig it out on the sly.

Like my kids do.

We came into some iPads a few years ago. I have always refused to give my little mythbusters a $500 piece of glass, but they came on a pallet of electronics through my husband’s business.

I’m a fan of the vast array of excellent educational Apple apps, so I spent a full week loading them up, setting up parental controls, setting a lock-screen code, preventing the adding and deleting of apps, and working the app time into our curriculum.

With glee, I handed them over to each child, knowing that even if they did sneak around for screen time outside of my scheduled time, they would at least be doing something educational.

I hadn’t accounted for the Internet.

Thank God I have tattletales, or I wouldn’t know what in tarnation is happening right under my nose.

“Mom, can I play Math Monsters?” I would hear and joyfully agree. Then the boys would scurry off to a dark comer and play shoot-em-up games on Kongregate. All the while, I’m acting like a grinning ninny that I’ve pulled one over on them — they think they’re having fun, but they’re really learning math.

When I discovered the deception, I marched those iPads into my bedroom and gave the kids a good yelling. Yep, that changed things… not at all.

Then I started finding iPads under pillows, under mattresses, stuck in between couch cushions, or hidden under the van seats. After a week or two of this continual frustration, I decided to treat the kids like I would sketchy employees — I’d lock those suckers up.

I bought a metal toolbox, a multiple-outlet charging box, and a sleek, gold padlock with three numbers to align. Each row had options 0-9.1 chose this one on purpose for the ease of it over the old clunky locker padlocks with instructions 1 ike turn right, then turn left, do a headstand, then clap three times.

However, I underestimated the power of the will of three tween boys and the draw of screen time.

Those kids spent just under an hour trying every single combination on that sleek padlock until they figured it out.

I couldn’t understand how I kept finding iPads stashed away when I very clearly remembered locking them away. I blamed my husband for forgetting to lock it.

Finally, one bleak day, a proud child admitted what he had done. (If not for my frustration, I would have been awed, too. ) So I upgraded my security system. I put the iPads in a cabinet, strung a chain around the handles and slipped an oldschool locker padlock through it.

First, they figured out how to slip the chain off the handle, and I spent about a week confused as to how the iPads kept escaping. After I rerouted the chain to prevent the Aim flam, I found my eldest son with a nurse’s stethoscope, slowly clicking away at that padlock.

“Mom! We figured out the first number! It’s 15 isn’t it?” he boasted.

I declined to comment.

(He was right.) One might suggest at this point in the story that I simply change the lockscreen code, so they cannot access the tablet without me. I actually tried that as well, but the little stinkers spied on me and discovered the code. I am just not cut out to hold secrets.

I have one codebreaker kid who has memorized the password to every wifi router in the house — and they’re not easy passwords like Upstairslnternet or DogsEatBones. They’re all randomly generated and end up looking something like this: r4E77ixP399-8I.

Codebreaker also broke into his father’s iPhone and added hisjingerprint on the sly. Giving~a~tei4-access rsle his own iPad through fingerprint is one thing, but accessing an adult’s iPhone through fingerprint carries some very heavy risks.

He could access alUuur bank accounts, our password storage app (which is where I store their Apple ID passwords, needed to download apps), our credit cards, and, God forbid, our Amazon Prime account.

All on the sly. Except the good people at Apple probably have a kid or two like this, and the phone immediately alerted my husband that a fingerprint had been added.

Whew! Narrow miss.

“Son, don’t add your fingerprint to my phone. It’s very dangerous,” Hubs said.

Codebreaker looked up at him, blue eyes wide, eyebrows raised, lips pursed deep in thought, and said, “Okay, I won’t. I promise.”

For the love of all things gullible. (Insert eye-roll emoji.) Technology really does enhance our lives, but oh the trouble it has made for our kids. These younger boys just want to play video games, -but I can’t even tell you about the teenagers in my house.

I still'clon't trust them with a smartphone. You can’t give your kid free reign to 'alHhe §aibage-on the Internet and trust That they’ll behave when they say, “I promise.”

Even if you have a filter on your WiFi (which you should), kids with activated phones can just turn WiFi off and access the forbidden through cellular data.

And the smut on social media? Ridiculous. The screen offers just enough protection from the very useful social structure of proper humiliation that people post things they would never actually say face-to-face. But the words sting just as much. ■ I have even found myself bored, out of habit scrolling through my social media feed on my phone when my kids are right there. We could play a board * game^chat, build sometHihgrdanec, _ make cinnamon rolls, or go. for a walk. Or, of course, we cduld read Shakespeare and diagram sentences.

Unless I find that Nintendo — in that case, it’ll be a Super Mario Bros, showdown til sundown.

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures their seven children provide. Her columns appear monthly in the Marion Ledger.

'The Marion Mom' By Dorothy Wilson