Rebecca Moore attempts to bridge the technology generation gap by getting her mum online and ready to Facebook

This week, my mother – who is 70 years old – acquired herself an iPad. In addition to this, for the first time ever, she also now has her own internet connection.

This has likely doubled the internet bandwidth use of East Anglia.

Rather short-sightedly, I was excited by the prospect of a tech-savvy mum.

My mother and I live over four hours away from each other and I rarely go home due to work commitments and she never visits Oxford due to an apparent inability to leave Norfolk more than twice a year.

I figured that technology would be our saving grace: rather than having to use text, phone or pigeon-post to prevent her panicking about whether I’ve survived yet another night, she would be able to email me.

Since I sit on emails all day long our connection could be 24/7.

She would even – horror of horrors! – see what I’m up to on Facebook. You know what they say: a daily status keeps the mother away.

Fast forward to Sunday night. For the first time ever, I sent my mother an email.

An hour went by with no reply, so I text her: Did you get my email?

After another hour, she replies: No. I’m having trouble getting it up.

I immediately pick up the phone to call her.

You’re having trouble getting what up?

The Email.

That’s how she said it: she definite-articled ‘email’, and capitalised it, too, for good measure.

After an agonising few minutes of instructions and patience, we finally managed to get her email application open.

Yes, there was the email I’d previously sent.

I directed her around the application a few times, making quite sure she wouldn’t spam the President or anything and – wishing her a good night – hung up.

The next day she was ecstatic: she’d used her email again and this time she’d been using The Google.

She’d managed to find where she was going on holiday and even identify some nearby Wetherspoon pubs because for some reason – not entirely known to me – that’s important.

My dreams for our internet relationship were coming to fruition. Oxford and Norfolk were now only separated by intangible webby stuff and limestone.

I could send her pictures, instead of dutifully paying to print and post them.

I could take time to Skype, rather than sending laborious text messages about various details of my life which nobody but a mother could possibly be interested in.

Then two days ago I set up a Facebook account for her.

I uploaded her profile picture and a cover picture, befriended her using my account and organised her privacy settings so that only her and I could see her profile while she muddles around it.

I sat back and waited for the parental adoration of my social media presence to begin.

Nothing.

I messaged her : Did you get my previous email? You’ve a Facebook account – see the email I’ve sent.

She phoned me back. What email... and what did she have to do with it?

I explained that she should tap – with her finger – on the Facebook icon on her iPad homepage.

I told her how to fill in her email and password and then what she could expect to see once the page loaded. Half an hour later, she phoned back.

She couldn’t see anything!

She didn’t understand!

She couldn’t see me. It was all blue.

The conversation went on in riddles for quite some time.

It was like that scene in Jurassic Park where the female character tries to get the park back online via walkie talkie.

Except I wasn’t saved by a savage Raptor attack.

I’m sure she’ll eventually get the hang of it. I mean, it may have taken us some time, but human beings did eventually evolve to get the hang of opposable thumbs.

In the meantime, I’ll sit back and wait for the onslaught of motherly Facebook love by watching my friends endure likewise: a guaranteed like of anything you do.

Supportive – and cringe-inducing – comments on any photo you post, even if the picture doesn’t contain you or anyone she knows.

And inappropriate status updates that were intended as private messages for your eyes only.

I can’t wait.

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