When I was 4, I was put in the corner at The Learning Corner for not knowing my home phone number and while I don’t remember the actual events of the evening that followed, you can bet my mom [or maybe my dad] helped me memorize our number so that the next day I could proudly recite it.

Years passed and our  number was written on countless school permission slips, emergency contact forms, doctor’s files, college applications, and summer camp forms. There’s no telling how many times I’ve written my home phone number down. Later, after the advent of “Zack Morris phones”, I received my first cell phone and stored the number simply as “Home”. I placed it at speed dial #5, always knowing Home was just a press away.

My first year at college there were innumerable calls to that number, then as the popularity of cellular devices increased, my parents “joined the bandwagon” and their individual cell numbers became my preferred method of reaching them. I never stopped calling “Home” though, nor did I stop writing it on contact forms. It always stayed one key press away.

In December of 2008, my parents disconnected their landline. To them it was no big thing, but to my sister and me it was huge. Even though we have a home to go back and visit and “Mom” and “Dad” on speed dial, neither one of us can remove “Home” from our phonebook. Because, if we do, we’d be “Home”less.

Isn’t it funny that a number I was once punished for not knowing, is a number that I no longer have to know?

image via splityarn on flickr