This is the weekly Amplify newsletter, where you can be inspired and challenged by the voices, opinions and insights of women at The Globe and Mail.
Lara Pingue is assistant national editor at The Globe and Mail
If you want to spark an animated debate among mothers of preteen children, try this: Tell them you’re buying your kid a smartphone.
Smartphones, I’m learning, have become the ultimate litmus test for your moral standing as a parent. And as with all phases of childrearing – from breastfeeding and sleep training to screen time and extracurriculars – you most certainly will encounter some Very Strong Opinions on this.
My own thoughts on the matter of smartphones lean heavily toward I Very Much Don’t Want to Have an Opinion Right Now, Thank You. I’d rather bury my head in the sand and pretend no decision is necessary. (See also: Asking 47 other parents what they plan to do and then disagreeing with all of them.)
But it turns out I can’t avoid the topic much longer. My kids are approaching the age at which phones are slowly becoming part of their social structure. So when I read a piece in The Cut by Kathryn Jezer-Morton on her own smartphone dilemma, I felt deep recognition. Here’s a parent who felt like there were no good options when it came to giving her son a phone, and so she did what she had to do – that is, she made a choice (she gave him a phone) and then became fixated on whether or not it was the right one. Is there a more perfect encapsulation of parenthood?
What is it about smartphones – and technology in general – that feels particularly fraught? I ask myself that every time I shut down the conversation with my nine-year-old, who knows that he has no reasonable chance of getting his hands on one right now yet still constantly asks but when?
I think the reason I want to run for the hills every time he brings it up is because using a smartphone isn’t just a phase; rather, it marks the entry point into a part of our kids’ lives that they simply can’t come back from. Unlike potty training mishaps or temper tantrums at the most inopportune moments, this isn’t something that will eventually become a funny anecdote at dinner parties. It’s permanent, and my kid isn’t ready for it – or, more accurately, I’m not ready for it. Why would I willingly give my child a gadget that I myself struggle with every day?
As Jezer-Morton puts it, it feels like a trap: “I hate my phone, and I use it constantly. Unless my son turns out to be an unusual person, he will probably grow to do the same. Maybe this is fine – most people would insist that it is, that all of this is normal, that I need to relax. But I’m not relaxed. My phone has amplified my worst qualities and dulled my best ones.”
In the year 2022, we know that a smartphone isn’t just a phone. It’s a door flung wide open into the world of TikTok and Snapchat and Instagram and YouTube, and all the sticky problems they invite into our lives. As I write this, a book called The Chaos Machine is sitting on my nightstand. Written by New York Times reporter Max Fisher, the book details all the ways social media companies have disrupted the world in a brazen race for profits, often with grave consequences. (I’ve barely begun reading it, but it’s already clear I should delete my social media apps and throw my smartphone into a river.)
Yes, I know how dramatic I sound, and no, of course I won’t throw my beloved phone into a river. When I think about it logically, I know that this is the perfect opportunity to talk to my children about the pitfalls of social media, about privacy and misinformation, about responsibility and self-image. These are all worthy, necessary conversations to have.
But I resent how smartphones have forced my hand and made all those conversations so urgent. I hate that my children want to be tethered to a tiny machine that tells them what to think and how to dress and who to like. I hate that I’ve already lost that battle myself and trying to protect my kids from it feels so futile. And so I put it off, and put it off, and hope that one day I wake up with the perfect solution.
Parents of teenagers tell me, “Just wait.” They say I’ll succumb to the smartphone, that it’s inevitable. Some of them have arrived at a comfortable arrangement with their kids, sharing passwords and setting screen limits and putting parental controls on their gadgets that offer them a sense of control. I know they’re right, and I’ll be where they are much sooner than later. Just not today, or tomorrow, or the next day.
What else we’re thinking about:
I love food, and I’m lucky enough to live in a big, vibrant city with plenty of adventurous options. So I read with great interest this Bon Appetit story about the wild world of restaurant reservations and the shady lengths some diners will go to snag a seat at some of the best eateries around. Toronto recently entered the foodie big league with the arrival of the Michelin guide (though I’d argue the city has long had a reputation for being a great place to eat, Michelin or not), and surely the reservation wars will reach new heights in our fair city. It’s a reminder that some of the best meals I’ve ever had happened by happy accident, surrounded by my closest friends and family, eating meals that were far from perfect but prepared with love. You can’t make a reservation for that.
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