What it's like to give up a smartphone

so far

Three weeks ago, I gave up my iPhone. It’s sitting in a drawer, in case this experiment fails, but I have been making do with a phone that has only a few functions (notes, calendar, call, text, camera).

all photos are low-quality new phone photos that must be downloaded onto my computer.

Like almost every person, I have been reckoning with my smartphone orientation for years. Carrying it with me everywhere, checking constantly. I’ve downloaded several apps to limit my use. Thanks to one, I can’t use Safari without taking three deep breaths. But my desire for input and entertainment leaps right over those hurdles.

I wasn’t even spending that much time on it, as things go — an average of 2 hours 10 minutes a day (less than half the average adult). But I could see that it made me more anxious and more apt to spot an uncomfortable feeling and try to escape with distraction. Sitting with discomfort isn’t superior in its own right, but I want to be able to hear my thoughts.

That has been the funniest part of the experiment. My thoughts without distraction are so boring and weird. Riding in a car, without an audiobook to entertain me, I created an action movie sequence where someone leaps from the expressway onto one of the nearby condo balconies downtown. The other night, falling asleep without a podcast, I thought about windows. Nothing even interesting. Just that sometimes they are big and sometimes they are small, and they open in all sorts of different ways.

I’m not unlocking the treasures of my own mind, just its banality.

Also, this week is my particularly dour time of the month. I am easily irritated and bloated and pessimistic. Without my phone to help me dissociate, I’m stuck with my grumpy self, stewing about people who don’t reply to emails and planning which cookie to eat.

I think I prefer it this way.

Four weeks ago, when I could roll over and look at the tiny computer right away, I felt annoyed when my kids came in because they were interrupting my checking (sleep stats, weather, news, Libby holds). Now, I hear them on the stairs and I’m thrilled.

Finally, something to entertain me.

____

An Unfit Parent reader sent me a poem she wrote, and I love it. Thank you, Emma.

More of This
By Emma Sokoloff-Rubin
(After Marie Howe)

every day there are openings
moments of fullness, of chaos and improv and light
both kids wailing at the same time: why no more fruit snacks? he wanted another
turn holding the phone
the tea party spun from nothing
invitations carefully crafted with paint sticks and glue
how do you spell invitation, mama? no, just tell me, I don’t want to sound it out!
impatience as birthright
I demand you to tell me! I dare you!

the cups, sized for small hands
he delights in dumping out the tea
again, again
then mopping it up with a dish towel
until we are all soaked.
and she did NOT want to get wet
this is a solvable problem, I say
maybe scooch over a few feet, to dry ground?
or change clothes, or maybe just, I don’t know, air dry?

No one likes to be told their problems are so easily solved

little green plates, cupcakes baked on the play kitchen stove
chocolate or vanilla? blue or green frosting? purple for mama, it’s your favorite
every few days she brings home an offering: a coloring page with purple butterfly wings, a hair clip she found on the playground. a portrait of me, piles of hair like half moons over my stick-figure head. I picked purple because it’s mama’s favorite.
I think I’m stuck with purple forever now

she protests when the tea party ends
why not one more round? you are the terriblest mommy ever. see, he wants to keep playing too! we made soup with salt and maple syrup and red pepper flakes and thyme. we want to eat it for dinner. just you, though. you for real. we’ll eat it pretend.
Just one more minute. I dare you! I demand you!
And again and again.

this, forever. I want more and then more and then more of this. what the living do. catching our breath, sipping the gross soup, counting backward from bedtime. little goblets of joy, these two. their invitations, their meltdowns, the smallness of their pajamas, the sheer force of their love. this, again.