Yes, it’s true. I was pwned by an 8 year old.
I went to visit my niece this weekend; we were out in the court to try her new Estes Hydrogen Fuel Rocket.
This thing is amazing as it is educational. It splits water into hydrogen and oxygen, and then electronically ignites the gases in an enclosed space, sending a rocket soaring into the air 200 feet or more. No special igniters. No solid fuel cells. In other words: safe, reusable, fun.
Well, right in the middle of the launch sequence, she looks at me and asks, “is that your phone ringing?”
I was pretty sure I had my phone on vibrate, but I pulled it out to double check. “Nope…”
Before I could continue, she said, “It must be mine,” and she pulled out a cell phone from her back pocket, nods that it was her, opens it, and excuses herself to take the call, stepping back toward her driveway.
Meanwhile, the rocket was still bubbling and the launch pad was spewing out verbal facts about Hydrogen.
But I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to figure out if she had her mom’s cell, but she didn’t. It certainly wasn’t a toy. And at that point, I’m pondering between the wisdom of giving a child a cell phone to call home or be reached, versus the certain insanity that would result come billing cycle if a child didn’t understand cell plans.
She comes back, closing the cell phone and putting it in her pocket, “it was my friend; she was letting me know she’s has a sleep over. Where are we at in the launch?”
I had to pause, we weren’t at the launch phase yet, “Uh, maybe another minute.” I was still thrown off guard that she was that entrusted.
Then I got to thinking, why don’t I have her number? Or why doesn’t she have mine, for that matter.
“What’s you number?” I asked.
“Huh?” She shrugged. “I dunno.”
Ah! Perhaps that what the parents did. They got some special plan where she can receive inbound calls or something. Now I was determined to figure out what it was.
“Do you have my number in your phone?”
She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You want it?”
“Sure!”
I pull out my cell phone, retrieve my number and show it to her.
“I don’t know how to add it to my address book.”
Fine, what I was really after was her number. I’d get her to call me, caller ID would save the number, and I’d save it.
“Can I get you to call me.”
“Ok.”
She looks at my number, types it in, and holds the phone up to her ear.
My phone’s dead and lifeless.
“Ring ring.” She says, waiting.
I’m still waiting for the call to connect.
“Ring ring.” She’s looking impatient.
Still nothing.
Before I can deduce that perhaps she misdialed the number, she starts giggling. “Why aren’t you answering?”
“My phone isn’t ringing.”
“Yes it is, I’m saying ‘Ring ring’.”
Then it hits me, her parents gave her a dead cell phone to play with. And at this point she realizes I thought she was serious the whole time and bursts into laughter at my foolishness.
“I thought you said you had a cell phone!” I exclaimed, trying to dig myself of out the trap with a logical justification.
“I do,” she said, “my parents gave it to me.” And with that, I realized I’d been set up from the beginning.
She hit the fire button, and the rocket shot upwards with a loud bang, startling me. I had been paying more attention to the phones than the rocket. Clever kid.