All you need is three different sized onesies, and then they go to college, right? We’re covered, then.
Ryan is a computer genius. Genius is such a devalued term in our modern word economy, but yeah. A Prodigy even, and not like the original ye olde internet. If you want to really hurt his feelings, all you have to do is click “Not Now” on the “There are updates ready for your computer” box.
Because that’s mean.
He found this getup and ordered it. Probably the same time he was ordering Very Important Computer Parts that will help with the Redundancy in the Server Room. I listen. I can mimic it back. I just try not to get emotionally involved.
So he can stage a dramatic modern recreation of War Games, and I’ve… I’ve had Twitter for like FOUR years. Clearly, a technological match.
As such, we’ve made precisely one parenting decision: No Internet Until You Can Read.
There is nothing for you here until then. There are no hand-eye benefits that can’t be replicated IRL with blocks instead of browser windows. The operation of a mouse is not so complex that the kid won’t be able to master it in an afternoon. I don’t anticipate disadvantaged development here. There are iPods/Pads/and Macs in the house, but they’re not going to be handed over. The Angry Birds will just have to stay mad.
There’s a sub-clause to this stipulation: No Photos of the Kid on the Internet.
Oh, Mommy Bloggers and Facebookers. Your kids are in for a world of hurt. Imagine if your whole album of baby photos and bathtime pictures and life stories were in a perpetual, searchable, manipulable, public forum. For the REST of your life, when ever you’re trying to apply for a job, that time you put peanut butter in your hair and cut your own bangs, is there. And you had no say-so, no decision-making part, in how your personhood is perceived, which is, as far as the public is concerned, kept on the internet.
That’s an awful thing to do to a person. It’s like tagging an unflattering picture of a friend. Though I bet they do that, too. There are hundreds (thousands?) of kids, being so grossly exploited in the name of clicks, that it makes the child stars of yore look like…dial up. I mean, Danny Bonaduce’s mom didn’t tell the whole world whether he’s circumcised or not. This is happening. And it’s horrible.
And so, genius as he is, Ryan gets it. He’ll set up some double-encrypted fire-walled something-or-other, to keep the kid virtually safe. And host the kid’s URL until he’s ready to handle it. Probably when he’s 30.
Plus, he went on a popsicle run yesterday and let me have the green one he picked out for himself without complaining once.
A n00b, maybe. But I think he’s going to do just fine.