Pushing Buttons

On my ever-growing to-do list at work today, I had to cross off syncing up my work laptop with a new MiFi wireless hotspot.  (I know.  A whaaaat?)  We nurses that drive between 45 and 120 miles a day, camp out at Caribou a little too much, and chart on patients into dark hours of the night on our cushy couches at home need WiFi acess to connect to the server at work so we can access and update patient information.  It's quite simple, really: the hotspot is this black shiny thing the size of my Blackberry; you turn on a button that turns on a light green that allows you to find it on the wireless network listing; you then connect to the Wifi, so that you can then connect to another server-allowing thingy on the desktop and then BAM!  You're all hooked up.

I can handle all that, but honestly?  Going through the set-up, all I could do was look at the box it came in.  It housed about four manuals, three very improtant 27-digit serial numbers that are so small I can't read them at age 32, a cord for charging it in the wall, a cord for charting it via my laptop, a cord for charging it in my car, a cord for charging it off of my bicycle, oh and here- here's a slick little protective sock, which will in no way help prevent me from losing the stupid thing every other day. 

Technology is getting ridiculous.  I now own two laptops, two cell phones, a MiFi hotspot, two voicemails, two e-mails, 13 chargers, and 93 passwords that get changed every other month.  Someone, please unplug me. 

Oliver, on the other hand, is still excited about technology.  His TV remote skills puts Michael's to shame.  Today, wanting to watch Elmo but having two parents who were actually eating their dinner and talking, grabbed the PlayStation remote.  (We let Ollie watch the occasional Sesame Street via Netflix, which is accessed through our PlayStation which takes no fewer than three remotes and three option menus to get to.)  He aimed it at the TV; nothing.  We watched his thoughts travel to something like, "well, Mommy and Daddy never stand up when using the remote...their always sacked out on the couch..." he climbed up on the couch, legs sprawled, and tried again. 

It's not just remotes that Oliver's into.  Light switches are the reason I have chronic back problems.  And today, just before the Elmo attempt, Michael stopped mid-sentence when we heard the toilet flush.  We looked at each other and telepathically communicated that no, the last time we checked, our son has not learned to be independent in that room.  Michael rushed in; Oliver had not in fact flushed himself down the toilet.  He may have flushed something else, but I guess we'll never know. 

At least he put the lid back down.