What part of, "I am the mother," do you not understand?

I'm pretty handy on the computer. Passwords, pins, logins, are not usually a problem for me. But as I was attempting to register Michael for a math class at our local community college, something went awry. And because I entered the (apparently) wrong password one too many times, it disabled the login under his name.

No problem; I’ll just call the helpful help desk number displayed on the unhelpful “We’ve disabled your account” screen.  I should have known anytime I say, “No problem,” there will be a problem.

The help desk helper wouldn’t help me because I’m not Michael. “Right, I understand, sir, but he’s a minor. I’m his mother.”

“Yes, I understand, but by law I can only help the person who registered the account.”

“I registered the account for him. He’s still in high school. I’m his mother.”

“I understand that. But unless he calls me I can’t reset the password.”

“Excuse me, sir, but do you understand I will be the one paying for said MINOR child to attend your institution? I am his mother! I housed him in my body for 9 ½ months, changed his diapers, wiped his nose, kissed his booboos, clothed and fed him and saw to his education and I am the one who set up the password! And you’re telling me I cannot get the information to change the password I set up? Let me repeat: I. AM. THE. MOTHER!”

Okay, I didn’t say the last part, but I wanted to. Instead, I said, “Thank you,” and hung up. And I will now wait for my dear minor child to stop throwing up so he can talk to the help desk, tell them all the stuff I could have told them, and get the new password.

Argh.

I sincerely hope the class doesn’t fill up between now and the end of the stomach bug that I sincerely hope will not visit any other members of the family.