Recently, my son’s middle school offered a reward for perfect attendance: a bus trip to Los Angeles for a Clippers game, leaving immediately after school. I wanted to send him a little money for dinner. But because the arena is cashless, the school advised parents to load money on the students’ smartphones instead.
It’s just one example of something that happens constantly now. After-school plans live in group texts. Coaches send pickup details through apps. Teachers rely on messaging platforms as the primary mode of communication. The assumption is that a phone is not simply a convenience for kids; it’s a requirement.
I don’t want my 11-year-old son to have a cellphone. I want him to enjoy his childhood. The problem is: It’s becoming harder to keep phones from him, especially since I’m addicted to mine.
I’m a phone addict, and I’m trying to change that
Over the summer, I convinced my family to backpack the Lost Coast, California’s longest stretch of undeveloped coastline. Most importantly, it offered something I desperately needed: four days without cell service.
I’m addicted to my phone — and not like a character on “The Diplomat,” where the fate of the free world depends on my next text. I’m just your garden-variety doomscroller. I’m the kind of person who opens Instagram intending to check one thing, then emerges an hour later after watching a stranger redecorate a bathroom. The phone is like cigarettes for my eyes, and I can’t stop lighting up.
The Lost Coast delivered what I’d hoped. My hands finally stopped twitching for a device that wasn’t there.
When we reached the parking lot at the end of the trail, the first bars of service appeared on my screen, and without hesitation, I dove straight back in. Notifications pinged. I answered all of them. While I caught up on days of messages, my 11-year-old son looked out the window at the peaceful coastline fading behind us, as if he were holding on to something I’d already let go.
There’s mounting pressure to get my son a phone, too
My son is one of the last holdouts in his grade, and I’ve been standing firm despite mounting pressure from friends, other parents, and even his teachers.
I believe being unplugged is essential to childhood. I want my son to know what it’s like to be disconnected — to experience boredom, to solve problems on his own, to be unreachable in a noisy world that demands constant attention.
I want him to cultivate skills without the assistance of a glowing rectangle. I want him to notice things about where we live: the subtle tracks left by lizards crossing sun-baked dirt, the scent of creosote after rain, the shadow of a hawk circling overhead.
But increasingly, it feels like the world is forcing my hand.
To be clear, I’m not anti-tech. My kid has a Nintendo Switch. He devours books on a Kindle. His homework lives on a Chromebook. I’m not trying to raise a pioneer child. I just want to preserve this all-too-brief, analog intermission before the algorithm finds him.
I’m still nostalgic for a time before phones
The uncomfortable truth I had to face at the Lost Coast is that I’m not modeling the behavior I expect from my son. I preach presence while practicing distraction. I’m holding back the digital tide from my child while letting it sweep me away.
Maybe that’s the real reason I’m resisting — not because I’ve figured out a superior system, but because I haven’t.
He’ll soon be old enough for a phone. Until then, I’m buying time, just not a data plan.
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