If you’re like me, certain keys on your computer keyboard stand out as more worn or shiny from constant use. The space bar, greasy with our thumbprints, the shift key, essential to YELL AT SOMEONE IN ALL CAPS, and of course, the enter key.
My shiniest key is the backspace key. While other keys are utilitarian in their functions, the backspace key is a gift.
How many emails have I typed, re-read, and then frantically mashed the backspace key as if it were a spider on my desk? No, wait–backspace. If it were a spider, I would have run to get my husband. That is his job. The man shall kill the bug.
Occasionally, when corresponding with one of my sons by email, they might ask my advice on various subjects, and I am happy to oblige, but…hmm. Five paragraphs of why I believe they should save 10% of their income may not be read. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. They don’t need the lecture from mom, just the facts. They’re going to blow their money on DoorDash anyway.
I have an idea for a backyard project and I try to describe it in my daily email to my cousin Connie. After typing it out, I realize I’ll embarrass myself as my pragmatic cousin will rightfully let me know exactly how much she hates it. Thank you, backspace key.
I was miffed the other day at an online customer service rep for messing up my order of alpaca socks and typed some pointed and unkind words—definitely backspace all of it. They are socks, for crying out loud! This is not a kidney in a cooler on a helicopter saving a life.
You get the idea.
I like to think of my backspace key as my conscience, my “Jiminy Cricket” to stop and make me think about what I am typing before plowing ahead with whatever thought comes out of my mind and filters down to my fingers. That’s tough to do as you get older. The filter starts to wear out, and replacing it isn’t always a priority.
My daily email conversations with Connie often revolve around both of our mothers. We share common experiences regarding the care of our mothers and the challenges and changes that come with age. We both jokingly agree that neither one of our mothers has a backspace key, and even if they did, they wouldn’t use it. Our mothers always let us know exactly what is on their minds, and always without reservation. I guess after 85 years you earn the right to choose to use that backspace key now and then– or not at all.
I’m learning that as people age, the key preference changes. Our mothers have doubled down on that Shift key, communicating almost exclusively in all caps, volume always optional. Meanwhile, I’m wearing out my backspace key, polishing it to a high shine as I reconsider, rephrase, and retreat. It feels fitting—my relationship with my mother has always been a mix of emphasis and erasure, affection and editing. She hits Shift without hesitation; I hover over backspace and think better of it. Between the two of us, we’ve got the entire keyboard covered.
