By Kris Ann Valdez 
My daughter invites me to sit in her backyard “home.” She builds a pretend fire. “Is it warm enough?” she asks. “Can you feel it?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, holding my hands out over the empty garden bed, “I can feel it.”
She gestures for me to sit behind the grapefruit tree, facing her. “Would you like a coffee?”
She charges me “a-lot-tay” for a latte. A running joke between us.
I’m trying hard to exist in the moment. To enjoy this quiet, slow-paced world with her. But my eyes slide across the grass to where my phone rests on a picnic blanket. Fingers twitching, I sit on them. Bite my lip. Resist walking over to check it as the notifications ding, ding.
I wonder . . . Did that company email me back? Did my friend respond to my text? Probably should pay that bill I keep forgetting . . .
“Here’s your latte!” my daughter says, handing me a plastic purple teacup filled with grass and tree trimmings.
“Oh,” I say, inhaling, “you infused this with rosemary.”
She smiles wide, barely suppressing a giggle. “That’ll be a hundred dollars!”
“A hundred dollars?” I fake an aghast expression.
It doesn’t matter, really. We are dealing in pretend currency.
The thing is, sometimes that’s how my phone feels too. Like the connection I seek through a screen is just pretend. Checking messages and emails and notifications—it’s not the real world. In fact, it untethers me to what is truly gratifying. I know these things in my heart, so why do my fingers still relentlessly reach for my phone?
Because no one tells you that parenthood—and adulting in general—is lonely business. Sometimes the quiet moments are hard to practice. That being resigned to my own thoughts or a child’s tiny voice, can leave me craving more outside stimulation.
A phone is an immediate answer. But what I’ve found is that I’ve forgotten how to sit in stillness with my family, or alone. How to be present without craving more sensory input. And every time I mindlessly scroll, I just feel . . . emptier.
Eventually, I grab my phone to check it “real fast.” When I look up, my daughter is watching me. My stomach gets a knot. Because I know what I am modeling to her—that this moment is not enough. She’s not enough to hold my attention.
Recently, I read a study that stated children exposed to screen-addicted parents have more anxiety. I felt that inside me like a nasty gut punch.
Then suddenly, one Sunday afternoon in the middle of folding laundry and listening to an audiobook, my phone died. Because I’m the worst at charging it, I think nothing of the black screen until the flashing Apple sign appears. Uh-oh, I’ve seen that once before—the time I washed a phone in the laundry. No amount of rice could bring that baby back. But this time, it seemed to have died of old age.
Monday morning, I wake and brush my hand over my nightstand to check the time, only to remember I am phoneless. After I drop my son at school, stopped at a redlight, my fingers tingle as I again reach for my phone. I swallow hard. Am I really that addicted?
Later in the morning, I need to make a call to the bank and internet provider—but must wait for my husband to get home. And to email a friend to explain why I didn’t respond to her text. Suddenly, life is more complicated. I feel this stupid small ache inside me from the loss of routine.
And yet—it feels like a burden’s been lifted from my shoulders too. I am finally free. The deadweight in my hand. The nagging prickle to check it. The mindless scrolling when I have a breather—all of it, gone.
My loss of the phone suddenly feels like a reason to sing, dance, throw a party. Let’s all be free! I want to proclaim. Chuck the phones, people! Let’s live like it’s 1999 again. (I can still recite my home phone number.)
I am bright-eyed hopeful, imagining my new way of life. Recalling that some celebrities even do this, like Ed Sheeran and Simon Cowell. Two days in, I even bother to email my son’s teacher and let her know for the “unforeseeable future” emails would be preferred since I can’t access the school app.
Access soon becomes an unfriendly word in my vocabulary though. I can’t view important accounts because they require a two-stop verification that involves the phone. Two weeks in, I spend 40 minutes on my husband’s phone with the bank to verify it’s me.
One afternoon my husband comes home bristly, “I emailed you an hour ago to see if you wanted me to pick up the kids from school. I was right there and could’ve done it!” Of course, when the baby strikes a cute pose, my neighbor snaps the picture on my behalf. So maybe it’s not convenient to be phone-less, but it does feel good in my soul.
Maybe you are there too, wishing this stupid device wasn’t glued to your hand. And where did the last 15 minutes go? And why do the kids always seem to catch you staring at it? Ultimately, I spent nearly two months without a smartphone. Now that I have one again, I want to do better this time. Here are five ways I’m working to lessen my screen addiction:
Putting the phone in “time out” or setting screen time limits. Choose a specific time of the day when your phone goes in a basket. You can turn on the “do not disturb” notification to let others know you’re unreachable. A close friend of mine has a no screens after 8 p.m. rule. Another puts her phone up high when she gets home from work to focus on her kids until bedtime. Find a rhythm of screen-less time that works for you.
For those moments you just need a quiet breather, have a book, a puzzle, a craft handy—anything that boosts you into a place of intentionality and away from mindless scrolling.
In the car, try staring out a window at a stoplight instead of reaching for the phone. Not only is it safer and more legal, but it also teaches you the power of observation. Even with a daily commute, there are many things you’ve probably never noticed before.
When your loved ones speak with you, put the phone down and make eye contact.
A hard rule of no screens at dinner allows you to spend quality time together.
Lastly, if none of these strategies work, consider joining me in a hard reset. Use a flip phone for a season or go hardcore and ditch the phone altogether—it might be exactly what you need.
by Jacqueline Barth 
