My Least Favorite Feature of the Smartphone

There's a lot of competition, but this one might take the cake.

Is it that it’s so many tools rolled into one, like some kind of Frankenstein-ed Swiss army knife?

Is it that it’s filled with apps designed to be addictive, borrowing features from slot machines and exploiting human weakness?

Is it that it can suck all the air out of a room, a conversation, a relationship with its mere presence, begging to be picked up, tapped, and scrolled?

Yes—and no.

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In 2015, I read a brilliant essay by Susan Dominus in the New York Times¹. I was five years into owning a smartphone, in my third trimester with our first daughter, and looking wide-eyed into the future. As my eyes flew down the page, I am sure I let out an audible “YES” at some point. Likely multiple points.

The essay is called “Motherhood, Screened Off.” Susan’s genius, to me, was articulating something I had long felt but had not quite been able to put to words: the almost total opacity of the smartphone, and the devastating effect that has on our attempts as parents to model what is good, right, and true for our children. I’ll quote at length:

“It is that loss of transparency, more than anything, that makes me nostalgic for the pre-iPhone life. When my mother was curious about the weather, I saw her pick up the front page of the newspaper and scan for the information. The same, of course, could be said of how she apprised herself of the news. I always knew to whom she was talking because, before caller ID, all conversations started with what now seems like elaborate explicitness ("Hi, Toby, this is Flora"). And when my mother spent her obligatory 20 minutes a day on the phone with her own aging mother, it played out, always, in the kitchen, where I was usually half-listening as I did my homework, waiting impatiently for her to finish. All was overt: There was much shared experience and little uncertainty. Now, by contrast, among our closest friends and family members, we operate furtively without even trying to, for no reason other than that we are using a nearly omnipresent, highly convenient tool, the specific use of which is almost never apparent.

…It is challenging enough to manage to be in touch with people, to remember to pick up the thing and drop off the other thing, to show up on time, to show up at all, to squeeze in time to read, to respond to a friend's question. Worse, for me, is to try to accomplish all that under a vague cloud of suspicion; to strive to do useful or meaningful things while feeling that I look as if I am likely watching clips of Justin Bieber from the V.M.A.s.”

(She goes on to talk about how when we pick up our phones our children can feel “shut out twice over,” and for that part alone the essay is worth reading and sitting with.)

While I’ve seen a few people talk about the opacity of the smartphone in the almost decade since, to me Susan’s take remains the first and the best. I think it resonated with me so deeply because I have the incredible good fortune of having extraordinary parents, and there on the precipice of taking on the role myself, I wanted nothing more than to offer my future children the same gift my mom and dad had given me. 

And here’s the thing—I felt confident that I could. Their example of how to be an adult and a parent was right there for me to see, as clearly as if it had been written out and handed over, instruction manual style. It was all so legible: the important and trivial ways they spent their time, their balance of leisure and work, the way they managed and cared for relationships, how they went about their various duties and responsibilities, what it took to run a busy household, what really mattered to them.

Before their grandchildren even arrived, though, I was already worried about transmission to the next generation. With so much collapsed into a pocket-sized black hole, what would my children’s instruction manual look like? What example would they have to follow? 

Years of watching me swipe at a screen isn’t it, as inconvenient and unfair as that sometimes seems. That memory, of me with my nose in a phone, would give my kids no useful road map to follow when they are grown. It’s a wall they can’t see over, leaving them with no idea whether I’m gently caring for a friend who’s hurting, planning our next family adventure, catching up on work, or reading an essay. There’s nothing there for them to take away, to make their own, and though I dearly hope they will forge their own path, I believe my job as a parent is to set them some useful guideposts along the way.

And so I fight for task transparency, daily. I push back against a single device swallowing more and more of my tasks. I prize the overt as often as I can, even though it often requires sacrificing efficiency and convenience in a way that doesn’t always make sense to others. 

You, too? I’d love to brainstorm together. Here are a few tactics I’ve tried—please join in the comments with your own ideas!

1. I arrange my day to prioritize phone-free tasks when my kids are around. 

The middle chunk of the day, when I’m working and my kids are at school, often feels like a night-and-day difference between the morning, afternoon, and evening when they’re in the mix. 

I work from home and as a writer, so I’m almost constantly on my computer and my phone for those six hours: drafting, researching, communicating, planning. But before and after, it’s not uncommon to plug in my phone and not see it for a few hours. While the kids are around, I try to prioritize visible, embodied tasks, like cooking dinner, folding laundry, exercising, doing some little project, reading, or processing school paperwork.

After they go to bed, I have another chance to attend to digital upkeep. I reply to text messages and emails, work on drafts, research trips, lay out a photo book, or any number of other to-dos I actually do need a device to do.²

2. I narrate what I’m doing. 

The school-day demarcation line is not, of course, perfect. I absolutely pick up my phone when my kids are around, to check a text message or look up a Note or check the weather. There’s no shame or guilt there—it’s a tool and it should be used as far as it’s helpful! But when I do, and when it’s reasonable (especially if I notice my kids watching), I’ll often explain briefly what I’m doing. “Oh, it looks like Aunt Kate texted about this weekend.” “Let me just look up that book you asked me about.” “I’m going to turn on some music.”

While not perfect, I hope this helps to dispel a bit of the mystery around phones, broadens my kids’ understanding of phones as tools, and, you know, keeps me honest :) I’m less likely to mindlessly scroll in their presence if I can’t come up with a good explanation for why I’m doing so.

3. I reach for my laptop over my phone.

If I do need to use a device while we’re all together, I’m more likely to reach for my laptop than my phone. Since my kids know I do most of my professional work on my laptop, its presence generally signifies “work” to them, and they’re far less interested in it—versus the phone, which they associate more with entertainment, and generally want to gather around when it comes out. Plus, the laptop doesn’t usually move from the counter, and it has a larger screen, so they can easily see what I’m doing, if they want. (And sometimes I’ll even invite them to take a peek, especially if it’s something I know they’ll appreciate, like designing our Christmas card or putting together an itinerary for an upcoming trip.)

Plus, I’m less likely to get distracted by my laptop! Using the laptop makes it easier for any tech incursion to be brief and purposeful—and then we can go back to whatever else we were doing.

4. I choose the analog option where possible.

I have plenty of digital systems that I rely on. I have a much-referenced solar system of Notes on my phone. We build a grocery list on Alexa as we move through the week. My address book is a Google Doc. My Bible reading plan is through an app.

But where it’s feasible—even if it means a little extra expense or effort, and especially if it’s something I think will teach my kids something, even if in a small way—I reach for the analog option, the stubbornly old-school, the path of most resistance.

I keep a paper calendar. I read physical books, and an Atlantic subscription that arrives in the mail. I cook with a recipe binder and write our weekly menu on a whiteboard in the kitchen. (To that end, I also grocery shop in person.) I address our Christmas cards by hand.

When I do, I find myself more present, rested, connected, and peaceful. And more than any single task, I hope that is something my kids notice, and tuck away for the future. 

Your turn! Is this something you think about? If so, what are your tactics for dealing with the smartphone’s opacity as you parent and move through the world? I’d love to hear!

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1. If you’re blocked by the NYT paywall, you might see whether your library has online access. Mine does, through ProQuest, and I’m grateful!

2. I imagine this will shift as they get older, stay up later, and have a more sophisticated grasp on the role of technology. I want to make that legible, too!