The other night when I came home from work, Phil decided Eli should show me some of his new dance moves, so he took out his phone and turned on our signature family dance party song (if you must know, it's Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" and we're proud of it, thanks). Eli's new move was amazing. It involved running rapidly in place with his feet very close to the floor like a hamster in a wheel while he lifted just one arm like a marionette, all the while keeping a look on his face that suggested great concentration.
I giggled, loving it. I had to have it on film. Because Eli hates it when I videotape him, I tried sneakily reaching for Phil's phone, not realizing that the song would stop playing. We turned it back on, but Eli was finished dancing.
I had ruined it.
I do this a lot. I feel compelled to document every new or cute thing we're doing, often at the expense of participating in the new and cute thing myself. Sometimes I catch Eli doing something extraordinary -- reading a book out loud to himself, singing the Shabbat blessing while lighting his pretend candles -- and the instant I try to capture a video, it's over -- and then I feel frustrated that I "missed" it instead of glad to have seen it with my own eyes!
I've always been a multitasker. When I was young, I tried to read at the dinner table, as if conversation with my parents wasn't enough to keep me occupied. In college, I often found myself working on two papers at once -- switching between them kept me fresh without wasting time with breaks.
When smartphones were invented, people like me rejoiced. Here was something at my fingertips that could give me backup entertainment at all times. I could check Facebook while waiting on line at the post office, browse movie reviews while talking to Phil about which movie to see, read BabyCenter message boards while nursing Eli.
When Eli was a baby, my iPhone and I were inseparable. In fact, if I sat down to nurse him without it next to me I'd be cursing myself for the next 20 minutes. Anyone who's ever spent any length of time at home with a newborn knows how lonely and boring it can be. I needed my phone to text my mom friends about what new foods they were trying next. I needed my phone to Google how often my baby should be napping. I needed my phone to post photos to Facebook that proved I was being a good mom to the cutest baby in the world. And as long as Eli had his pacifier and his bottle and his swaddle and his baby iPod and his jingly toys and his playmat and his Boppy, he didn't care.
But now Eli makes it clear that he does care. "Leave your phone!" he'll say impatiently, waving his hand at me in a classic Jewish-grandmother-no-no gesture. "Put your phone away!" Sometimes I feel like a character in The Sims, that computer video game I loved playing when I was in high school. In The Sims, certain household objects emit temptation that compels your Sims to keep interacting with them, even when they have to do more urgent things like flirt with their significant others or, um, use the bathroom. They just keep being drawn to play with their computers even as the school bus drives away or their hunger begins to rise to unacceptable levels.
Or, as an article I once read put it, "When I look back on these moments in 20 years I know I'm going to have enjoyed playing with my kids more than browsing on my phone, so why am I so compelled to browse on my phone when I could be playing with my kids?"
This past summer, when we were on Martha's Vineyard, I went as far as deleting the Facebook app from my phone so it wouldn't be a distraction from our vacation. Because besides the fact that just browsing my newsfeed is a timesuck, I didn't want to get caught up in posing the perfect pictures and then constantly posting them all, "Look at what a great time we're having!" (Instead, I preferred to go for the Grand Facebook Reveal when we returned: Look at what a great time we had!)
This is all a long-winded way of saying that my new year's resolution is to unglue myself from my phone. Gradually, because we're BFFs, but I'm making a concerted effort. My ultimate goal is to go media-free on Friday nights and Saturdays (aka Shabbat Lite, if you will).
In the meantime, there are certain moments that you're just never going to capture. Like last night, when I came home from work and Eli streaked out into the living room. I say "streaked" because he was stark naked except for one sock. With the door open behind me, he caught a glimpse of his stroller still sitting in the hallway.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "We have to get my stroller!"
I quickly pushed the door shut to prevent him from a naked escape. "Not now," I assured him, "we'll get it later."
He looked at me with wide eyes. "But Mom!" he protested. "It's gonna be amazing!"
It sure is.
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