I Knew It Was Coming, But I Wasn’t Prepared for the Great Cell Phone Debate

Most of my children’s middle school friends have phones with full access to the Internet and social media. My husband and I have discussed our differing views on phones over the years, and the discussion intensified when we moved this summer.

“James, she’s in seventh grade and has no friends here. I think a phone would be good for her so she can talk with her old friends as she tries to establish new friendships. She’s going to be lonely in the beginning, and I think a phone would smooth the transition for her. Plus, she can have new freedoms to bike around the neighborhood and walk into town with her future friends.”

“Julie, have you considered that maybe she shouldn’t be doing things and going places that would necessitate a cell phone? Like, if we are that worried, she probably shouldn’t be doing the very things that worry us.

“Well, that would mean she wouldn’t be allowed to leave the house, because I will worry the minute she steps outside of it. James, this phone is for me as much as it is for her. I have to be able to communicate with her when she’s not home.”

“Okay, well that’s a different story, but I still don’t think she should have a phone. If we get one, I am going to block everything.”

“I know, and I’m completely with you on the social media front. Let me look into some phone options where she can text and call people without having access to the things that terrorize us.”

After doing research, I settle on a Pinwheel, a stripped-down smartphone that does everything we want, and nothing we don’t. My daughter is happy about getting a phone, and more importantly, greater independence and freedom.

My children often inquire about my favorite parts of childhood, and in ironic unfairness, I respond that it was the freedom I had.

On weekends, I hastily ate breakfast and headed to the garage to get my bike as I finished my last bite of food.

My parents asked, “where are you going?”

“Around the neighborhood,” I vaguely responded heading down the driveway not knowing exactly where I was going. All I knew was that I was going and would be gone all day. They rarely told me what time to be home, and it would’ve taken a lot of effort for me to know what time it was anyway without a phone or watch. It was my empty stomach and the darkening sky that guided me home. There were many kids in the neighborhood, and I rode to different friends’ houses to see if they were available to ride bikes or play hopscotch or jump rope. If they weren’t around, I’d circle back to find my brother and his friends, and we’d look for curbs to jump on our bikes. We eventually set up a wooden ramp on the street and took turns jumping to see who could go the highest and farthest. We were the last house on the left on a dead-end street, so kids commonly gathered in front of our house so we could play uninterrupted. If we gathered enough kids, we’d play kickball or some other team game, where we would invariably get into arguments about the rules that were often made up on the spot.

“You can’t tag him in the face! That’s a penalty and you lose a point for that!” Sometimes these arguments would take longer than the game itself. If we couldn’t settle the matter, someone would say “Forget it. Let’s just play another game.” We did, and then we’d argue about the rules on that game too.

After a long full day outside without a phone, I’d arrive home with messy hair, grass-stained jeans, and still out of breath from pedaling full-speed to get back. We’d immediately sit down for dinner, and I wouldn’t look up until I was full and satisfied. Satisfied from the nourishment, and a full day of freedom.

My kids listen to these stories with their mouths agape wishing that their life mirrored mine, or even better, the kids from “The Sandlot.” I never once thought, “Hey, wouldn’t it be cool to have a cell phone to touch base with mom or call our friends to see if they’re home?” I’d seen Maxwell Smart with his portable shoe phone but failed to recognize that something like this would become ubiquitous in our future, a way of life. We worked around it. We figured it out. They didn’t exist, but now they do, and how convenient.

***

For the remainder of the summer, her phone was just the balm she needed for connection. Then school started, and she asked to go into town with her classmates. I was excited for her and told her I would pick her up at 5 PM. When I arrived, she got in the car, and tears welled up.

“Sweetheart, what happened? Did you not have fun?”

“I did in the beginning, until they started scrolling through TikTok and taking pictures on Snapchat.”

“So, are you telling me that no one was talking to each other?”

“Not really. Someone would say something, but then they’d all go back on their phones. It’s so frustrating, Mom. I can’t do any of that on my phone, so I had no idea what they were talking about, and I was just sitting there with nothing to do. Why can’t people just talk to each other?”

I love her for this, and feel the same, but it doesn’t make it any easier on her. I put myself in her shoes: I know she would love to have a phone without limitations despite our warnings. She says she understands, but deep down I’m sure she resents having parents that aren’t as liberal as her friends’ parents. I try to be empathetic, but I can’t make decisions based on her feelings alone, as difficult as that is. Her fondest and most cherished memories will not be the time she spent scrolling through Instagram. She will most remember spending epic days with friends and family, creating new experiences that shocked and amused, and getting into a bit of trouble. Childhood is so short, as we are adults far longer than we are kids. I don’t want her to grow up so fast. She’ll have time for all that. Later. I just hope her resentment is short-lived, just like her childhood.

Months later, my daughter found her tribe — a small group of girls who can’t stop talking and scream so loud it’s hard to think. Occasionally, when my daughter has her friends over, I find myself wishing they would take a 10- minute break to scroll through their phones so I can get some peace and quiet. But then I close my eyes and remind myself that she will remember those screams fondly, and I will someday miss them dearly.