For my daughter’s 10th birthday, we decided to gift her an iPhone. Up until that point, she hadn’t really experienced any of the perks that come with being the oldest sibling, like a later bedtime or a bigger allowance. We thought this phone would mark a significant step towards independence and responsibility. She could curate her own playlists and dive into Minecraft, plus it would help her walk home to meet her sisters after school.
I did my homework on privacy and safety. We agreed to no Instagram or Facebook, but I let her explore photo editing apps. The ground rules were straightforward: no app purchases without a chat, and her Dad and I would have access to her texts.
Surprisingly, having the phone didn’t turn her into a moody tween. Instead, she entertained me with her enthusiasm for the Tips feature. “Did you know you can take a picture without unlocking your phone? Or swipe to reply to texts?” Her excitement was contagious, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of joy at her newfound independence.
Then came a little hiccup—an in-app purchase that totaled $247. I had heard horror stories about kids racking up huge bills on iTunes, but I foolishly assumed a kids’ game would only cost 99 cents, not $49 in a single tap. After some back and forth (thank you, Apple, for the one-time refund), I chalked it up to a learning experience.
As she sang along to Taylor Swift’s increasingly grown-up lyrics with her headphones on, I could see her transforming into a pre-teen. I found myself nostalgic for the days of pigtails and her little voice saying, “Me do it.” I shook my head; this growth was part of life. I wanted to celebrate the young lady she was becoming.
One day at work, my phone buzzed with a message from her. I picked it up, eager to say hello, but she interrupted me, her voice a mix of panic and urgency. “Mom, I’m fine, but I’m not really fine. I think I am?”
“Slow down, what’s going on?” I asked, already sensing trouble.
She blurted, “I need to tell you something, but please don’t think my friend is mean!”
“OK, just breathe. What happened?” I gestured as if I could physically calm her down.
“It’s a text, Mom,” she said, her words tumbling out.
I took a deep breath, thinking it was just typical mean-girl drama.
Then she continued, “It says if I don’t follow its instructions, the bloody boy will come to my house at midnight and hide under my bed. Then he’ll kill me!”
It took a moment to fully grasp what she was saying—she was reading me a chain letter.
“Sweetheart, that’s just not true. It’s a chain letter,” I reassured her.
“What’s that? How do you know? Everyone at school is talking about the bloody boy in the mirror!” she exclaimed.
“Briar, listen. It’s not real. Just take a deep breath. This is a trick, alright?” I told her I’d be home soon. My mind raced as I thought about how instant texting can invade personal space in a way that letters and calls never could.
When I got home, I looked at her phone and recognized the age-old chain letter, only this one seemed a bit more sinister than the ones I remembered from my childhood.
“Listen, this is just a prank to scare you, just like those kids being mean at school. They’re trying to get a reaction out of you,” I said, searching her face for understanding. Instead, I found wide-eyed terror. As I calmed her down, I reminded myself to breathe too.
Even though technology has advanced, clothing styles are racier, and lyrics have become more explicit, the truth remains: kids are still kids. They get scared, they’re gullible, and they often overestimate their maturity.
“Briar, can we talk about this?” I asked, noticing she had buried herself in a book. She looked up, her blue eyes reflecting the same innocence they always had.
“It’s okay to feel scared,” I said softly. We let the moment linger. She seemed unsure. “This is why your Dad and I want to read your texts. Let’s delete this now.” She inhaled sharply.
“No one is going to be under your bed, and none of your friends will get hurt. I should’ve thought this through. I never considered that strangers could add you to group texts. I’m so glad you reached out to me.” Her shoulders relaxed, and her gaze met mine.
“You did the right thing,” I reassured her.
“I’m sorry I got scared,” she replied.
“It’s alright. I know I wasn’t here when you first got the text, but I’m here now, and we can always talk, okay?”
She gasped and threw her arms around me, and I stifled my own gasp. I hadn’t intended to rush her into growing up, yet I had assumed she could easily tell fact from fiction.
We didn’t respond to that chain letter, but we agreed that I would keep a close watch for a little while longer to help keep her safe from the monsters under her bed.
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Summary
In this heartwarming reflection, a mother recounts how a chain letter panic moment reminded her that her daughter is still a kid. Despite the challenges of modern technology, she learns that children remain vulnerable and often need guidance as they navigate their fears and the complexities of growing up.