“Instead of me riding the bus today, could we go to breakfast and then you could drop me off at school?” my then 13-year-old daughter Natalie unexpectedly asked one Friday morning. My Type-A, plan-happy brain initially resisted this spontaneous request. But while my brain began to list the reasons I couldn’t go, my eyes saw something else. Standing in front of me was a not-so-little girl in stylish tribal-print pants that were just a little long for her small physique. They wouldn’t be too long forever, I knew. She was growing up fast.
“Okay,” I said, suddenly grateful to have an hour alone with this extraordinary girl.
After breakfast, we ran into a nearby store for a piece of poster board. As we stood in the checkout line, a woman pulled her cart up behind us. Standing in the back was a little girl who appeared to be three or four years old.
“Mama, can I get out?” the little girl asked.
No response.
“Mama, please can I get out?” the child politely asked again as the woman used her pointer finger to scroll down the screen of her phone, smiling to herself.
As the little girl continued to ask the same question, her left leg inched higher and higher over the grocery cart until it appeared she was going to get out herself. My daughter, sensing the little girl was about to fall, quickly stepped next to the cart, preparing to catch her. The little girl looked at my daughter and put her leg back in the cart. She returned to asking the same question once again, in hopes her mother might respond to her pleas.
We hadn’t even made it to the car when I saw tears forming in my daughter’s eyes. As she shut the door, she quietly said, “That made me really sad.”
“I saw the way you anticipated what was about to happen. You prevented the little girl from falling,” I commended.
But that was not what my child wanted to talk about. “The mother didn’t hear her child, and she was standing right there,” my daughter said sadly. “I hope it’s not always like that. The little girl may grow up thinking her words are not important and stop trying to tell her mom things.”
Those words, coming out of that mouth, felt surreal to me. Several years earlier, my daughter was a little girl yearning to be seen and heard. She experienced the 21st-century phenomenon of being invisible to someone while standing right in front of her. That someone was me.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly to that little girl who was now a young lady.
Seeing Natalie
My daughter knows my story. She’s heard me speak my darkest truths about distraction’s grip—a grip that took away my smile, made a yeller out of me, and nearly cost my life at a traffic light. She’s read my books and gifted them to her teachers having babies. My daughter knows how sorry I am for what I missed, but she also knows how thankful I was when I woke up.
My child knows her face was one of the first sights I saw as I came out of a frenzied, joyless two-year period of my life.
I’d just committed to turning off my phone and sticking it in a drawer at critical connection times such as meals, bedtime, greetings, and departures. I’d been saying yes to her “watch me” invitations and offers to “help” in the kitchen. I was trying to be patient and softer toward her instead of hurried and critical. I was trying to look up often and spot glimmers of goodness in my day that were so easily buried by life’s duties and distractions.
On that particular day, my daughter stood on the kitchen stool I’d pulled up beside me. I’d given her a table knife, and she’d carefully cut up carrots, cucumbers, and red peppers. Her capable, little hands evenly distributed the colorful pieces into four salad bowls.
“I like doing this with you,” six-year-old Natalie said, looking up at me with her gigantic brown eyes. “Thank you, Mama.”
That’s when I saw her—really saw her for the first time in two years. I saw that her beautiful round face had elongated. I saw my mother in her big, brown eyes. She’d gotten a few new freckles on her nose. But the way she smiled at me, as if there was no place in the world she’d rather be, was what brought me to my knees. Oh my, I thought to myself. I see her. I really see her now. Thank you, God, for this beautiful child who is mine.
The sight of this child’s face fueled me to keep looking up and letting go.
Empowering
After going hands free, I quickly noticed many positive results regarding my personal relationships and inner well-being. By placing protective boundaries around special connection times each day, I was able to see, hear, and respond more lovingly to my family members. I went through my day feeling less conflicted, overwhelmed, and agitated. No longer dictated by the dinging demands of the device, my thoughts and actions were my own.
It seemed only natural to voice these important discoveries to the people I loved, and it felt right to do it in dialogue that empowered rather than dictated.
Instead of saying, “Devices are not allowed at the dinner table,” I said, “We’ll miss the best part of eating together if we’re looking at our devices. Let’s charge them in the other room.”
Instead of zipping my phone in my purse while driving and not telling anyone, I said, “I’m going to drive with my phone out of reach. I don’t want to hurt us or anyone else by driving distracted. Plus, I don’t want to miss the beautiful sights.”
Instead of saying, “Put away your device while we wait for the doctor,” I said, “Waiting time is a great opportunity to catch up with each other. Tell me the best part of your day.”
Rather than demanding with no explanation that all devices be used in a public area of our house, I talked frequently about Internet safety and why it was important to keep each other accountable and not hide scary, hurtful, or confusing cyber issues from each other.
Rather than letting the smile on the cashier’s face go unnoticed, I said to my child, “Did you see how happy it made the cashier when we acknowledged her rather than looking at a phone?”
Tool and Barrier
Talking to my daughter about the importance of having a time and place for technology became a way of life—just like talking about drugs and alcohol, puberty, body safety, bullying, and other critical topics. I didn’t know how this ongoing dialogue over the past seven years would impact Natalie, but I was hopeful. And through a quick stop to get poster board, the most important discovery was made.
I see that she sees. Her eyes see an important distinction between technology as a tool and technology as a barrier.
She is a teenage girl who uses her electronic device to communicate with friends and family near and far. She uses it to manage the cat rescue website where we volunteer. She uses it to plan a summer camp for young children in our neighborhood. She uses it to create and post YouTube videos for her musical sister. She uses it to shop for the perfect gifts for people she loves.
But she also steps away from her device, more often than not, to look up and let go.
She is a teen who loves to apply face masks, wade in the river, and go antiquing. She’d be happy to take your blood pressure, make you a glass of iced tea, or babysit your kids. She can look for seashells for hours on end or just sit and watch the rhythm of the waves. She loves baking, swimming, and playing with her beloved cats, Banjo and Paisley. Each night at bedtime, she writes poetry in her diary.
I don’t know if my daughter will retain these healthy boundaries with technology as she grows, but I do know she’s acquired a vital awareness that cannot be taken away. Should she veer off the path of choosing real-life experiences and face-to-face conversations over those on a screen, she’ll know where the emptiness is coming from. She’ll know why she’s feeling the need to compare herself to others. She’ll combat the fear of missing out by putting down the device and going toward what matters most. And she’ll know, without a doubt, that I’m willing to go there with her.
Choosing
When I found our beloved cat Banjo lying by the open back door after another cat attacked him, I lay my head on his body and cried. It struck me that there was only one person I wanted by my side in that moment. I longed for my daughter Natalie to be with me. She would know. She would understand.
After taking Banjo to the vet, I prepared myself for my daughter’s arrival. I knew exactly what she would need to hear and what her face would look like. I knew she would need me to reassure her. I knew this because I’d been seeing her face clearly for the past seven years.
Her reaction was exactly as I expected—except for one thing.
After I finished telling her what had happened, Natalie wiped away her tears and suddenly grabbed my hand. “That must have been scary for you, Mom. I bet you were crying so hard. I am so sorry you had to go through that alone.”
My child knew me, too. She knew exactly what I needed to hear and what my face looked like during that horrible moment. She knew I needed her to hold me.
Seven years ago, I chose her. And today she is choosing me.
She is also choosing to stand beside others in pain, see Mother Nature’s beauty, anticipate falls, celebrate triumphs, cry for those who are ignored, comfort those who are abandoned, make eye contact, and embrace the good and the bad that come with an eyes-up, open-handed life.
Seven years ago, I decided I didn’t want to miss my life. As a result, this young lady is not missing hers.
How to Break Down the Technology Barrier
If a barrier is coming between you and the ones you love, start taking small steps to break it down:
- Accept their invitations—or invite them to do something they love to do.
- Pull up a stool and don’t worry about the mess.
- Look up when they walk in the room. Look in their eyes when you say goodbye. Look beyond their flaws to see all that they are.
- Ask for their opinion and then listen—just listen.
- Say you’re sorry. Tell them that you’re going to do things differently starting today.
- Forgive yourself for what you missed in the past. Believe today matters more than yesterday.
I believe it. My daughter believes it. And so does that person standing in front of you.
Perhaps today is the day you’ll see that beautiful face for the first time in a long time, and you will be thankful, so very thankful, you can see it now.
You can read more of Rachel Macy Stafford amazing work by visiting her blog Hands Free Mama.