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Every father wants the same basic things for his children—three boys, in my case. I want them to grow up to have a better life than I have, a bigger house, and a better job. I want them to marry someone just like Mom and to be smarter than their Old Man. That last one, especially. I just didn’t expect them to start showing me up by the time Matthew, who needs only one hand to show how old he is, was in kindergarten. Kindergarten started innocently enough for Matthew, the oldest. There was finger painting, learning to print the letters of the alphabet, a couple of songs. Then Matthew came home and informed his jaw-to-the-floor parents that he had started to type. Not hunting and pecking. Really, truly touch-typing on a QWERTY keyboard. The kindergartners went straight from learning to hold a pencil the right way and printing big capital letters, to typing on computers. I was dumbfounded. To me, who didn’t learn to touch type until I took an elective course in 10th grade, my view of kindergarten as a, well, child’s garden, shriveled up and died. Someone hit the delete key. I spent a sleepless night wondering whether this was the end of handwriting in all its forms. No more Palmer method. No more block printing. No more high-school girls dotting their i’s with smiley faces or little hearts in notes to their boyfriends. Will the ballpoint pen become a historic artifact like the styluses the Babylonians used to create cuneiform writing in wet clay? Will someone have to go back and rewrite lyrics of that old song to make it say, "I’m going to sit right down and keyboard myself an e-mail"? There is certainly some wisdom in tabbing right past cursive. The only time I use cursive lettering these days is to sign the odd check or two for bills I can’t pay online. Does anyone really take pen, pencil, or bright red crayon in hand to write much other than their signature these days? Sure, waitresses scribble on their small pads. But those are just notes in a sort of shorthand. Waitresses then go to the kitchen and place the dinner order on a computer screen. Many doctors still indulge in their famously bad handwriting. But that’s an anachronism. It’s much more efficient for them to e-mail prescriptions to drugstores. Writers? Please. Even a curmudgeon like me uses the ubiquitous Microsoft Word to spell check a word like curmudgeon. Matthew did give the journalist in me a thrill of pride when he told me the semicolon key on his personal computer is "only for professionals." But he is already well on his way to being a keyboard virtuoso with skills far beyond mine. Even with the limited dexterity of a child, Matthew rattles away on the keys with the frenzy of hailstones on a window. He is so comfortable at the computer that he often sends me e-mails while I’m at work. I don’t think Matthew has yet collected e-mail addresses from his classmates and neighbors but that’ll happen in, oh, first grade. In a bit of irony that I hope went over his head, he e-mailed me a Father’s Day card from Blue Mountain (www.bluemountain.com), which sends greeting cards with messages that look handwritten. Matthew is by no means exceptional. (OK, I imagine he’s a bit ahead of your youngsters, but you’d have been disappointed if I didn’t think that.) Matthew’s two brothers, Brian at 4 and Stephen at 2, are all learning from the master. Stephen has already figured out how to use the escape key to skip past parts of games that don’t interest him. Now, I shouldn’t be completely surprised at what my kids are doing. I was on the Matthew end of conversations with my own father when he told stories of how, for instance, in the 1930s he and his family would gather around a large piece of living room furniture known as the radio. Remembering tales of how he’d pay a nickel to see a double feature on Saturdays, with a candy bar tossed in for free, I’ve wondered what in my past would amuse and amaze my kids. I figured I’d tell them about life before cable-TV, VCRs, and the Internet. Then, when I had them shaking their heads, I’d tell them about those dark ages before—gasp!—TV was in color. As I think about Matthew and his typing, I know he’ll eventually tell similar tales to his own kids. Because technology marches on, in 30 years "writing" may well be voice-activated. He won’t sign checks; he’ll validate a transfer of money with a digital scan of one of his retinas. By that time, typing skills will be about as useful as shorthand or, maybe, knowing how to tune the carburetor on your 1957 Edsel. Matthew’s kids will wonder why he ever bothered learning to type.
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