Are you being destroyed by a phone?
Home, hearth and screens, in the era of COVID-19
Let me be clear: I am not parenting three human children. I am parenting three macro-size planar forms, who exhibit ubiquitous computing, artificial intelligence and visual-output displays in coordination with three major environments: the physical world, human-centered surroundings and distributed-computing domains. In short: I am parenting devices. And let me tell you, it’s not going well.
When it comes to parenting, one sentence has not changed in 74 years, throughout all nine updated editions of Dr. Benjamin Spock’s classic, “The Common-Sense Book of Baby and Child Care:” “Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do.” That famous opening line has been carved into parents’ hearts since the book’s first publication in 1946. The only problem is: Dr. Spock was talking about human beings.
“Screen Time up 500% During the Pandemic;” “How Worried Should We Be About Screen Time During the Pandemic;” “Experts Worry Screen Time During COVID-19 Could Increase Vision Problems in Kids;” “Why Parents Shouldn’t Worry About Their Children’s Increasing Screen Time … For Now;” “Parent Killed by Fishy vs. Banana Battle Made Real” — I’ve read them ALL. (OK, I made up that last one.)
But it’s not just that I’m parenting little plastic screens in need of major attitude adjustments; my kids ARE in there SOMEWHERE. It’s just that the little human being I used to swaddle like a burrito is now being swaddled by a 36-yearold man from southwest China who makes his employees do push-ups if they don’t post and get enough likes on TikTok, which generates their paychecks.
“Oh don’t get me started,” another mother told me. “I just took Alissa’s phone away for two weeks.” “Why?”
“I just CAN’T anymore.” I would seriously worry for my physical safety if I ever tried taking away my 11-year-old Selma’s phone for two weeks. (Frankly, I’m not sure I’d make it out alive.)
So, this being the pandemic — where every day brings us closer to a unified theory of death and destruction — I decided to give it a whirl. Selma had been a living nightmare for days on end, graduating her motherspecific eye roll to a move that involved a new orchestra of facial muscles, accompanied by some kind of animalistic snarl. Clearly, it was time to take the phone away.
My first challenge was maneuvering the phone out of her hands. I know this sounds pathetic, and that my mother is either laughing or crying right now, but I could not manage to physically pry my daughter’s iPhone Xwhatever-the-hell out of her hands — even though I pay the bill (as if that mattered anymore).
“Whatever happened to the whole, ‘Now remember, this is really MY phone — and I have the right to take it away or to look through it at any point’ mandate we issued upon its purchase?” my husband Ian asked me.
“I don’t know, honey … a global PANDEMIC, maybe?”
When we finally took physical possession of the phone itself, Selma told us she was going to call “991” [sic]— until we pointed out that we had her phone.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My parents took my phone.”
“Right! Sit tight, don’t move — help is on the way!”
But after enduring a family dinner that could only be rivaled by the final act of “Titus Andronicus,” we started plodding our way through a phone-less week. By Day Two, we were noticing something: Selma was relaxed — and much more herself than we had seen in months.
“That’s because I want my phone back,” Selma told us.
I’m not sure what to tell you here. When I started writing this column, I had plans to end it on a note of hope, about how screens are actually working to mitigate the inequity we see highlighted in such hideous ways by the pandemic (and by just about every other global phenomenon at present). Never has the socioeconomic divide felt larger, and magnify that by 20, with a kid trapped at home in Greenwich, CT?
Not so much. The fact that my 9-year-old George gets to play some game involving avatars-with-extremely-firmbuttocks alongside his godbrother Jahmier and crew (most of whom live in New York City) gives me pause. George never had time to play with Jahmier before the pandemic; now he has gotten close to a pack of boys he
might never have otherwise known.
George told me out of nowhere the other day how lucky we are to have a yard. Could it be that screens were ushering in more awareness, diversity and perhaps even equity? After all, when you are an avatar, no one cares about race, money or power. You are all running around together, blithely singing a disturbing song about a fish being on you, which makes you slap your knee for no apparent reason.
“In a sense, these multiplayer platforms are the
best thing that’s happened to kids,” I was told. “It’s the great equalizer.”
“Didn’t they say that about the pandemic?” my husband asked.
(They did — and the person who stood up for screens, I should add, had braces.)
So, as usual, I leave you with zero wisdom. Screens are killing our kids; screens are bringing them together. Screens saved our kids during the pandemic; screens will end up causing mass, pediatric blindness. I have no idea how I will regain
control of this runaway train, once we do eventually get to the other side of this long, long tunnel called COVID — or if I ever even had control to begin with.
What I will tell you is this: Dr. Spock was right: I’m MOM — and I know best. Trust me.