“Call Dad. . . Mobile!” he said into the plastic wireless (for ages 18 months and up.)

Yes, I voice dial. Yes, I call my husband with it. But the funny thing is that I don’t have “dad” programmed on my phone. I use my husband’s first name. This means he wasn’t copying me; he was taking the technology I use and adapting it to his needs.

And while my son may have already mastered the art of voice dialing, he may eventually have to look up “rotary phones” on Wikipedia to see one. That amazes me in a way the latest microcomputer moonlighting as telecommunications never can.

Is this is how the horse and buggy generation felt when their children began playing with toy cars? I don’t know. What I do know is that I won’t be surprised when my son voice dials SpongeBob.

If I were a potato that looked like an emoticon, I’d be pissed. Especially if I were served with peas.

And I wonder if McCain will ever extend the product into winks, frowns, and poker faces.