My Kids Are Obsessed With Technology, and It’s All My Fault
Illustration by Tom Gauld
By
STEVE ALMOND
A few months ago, I attended my daughter Josie’s kindergarten open
house, the highlight of which was a video slide show featuring our
moppets using iPads to practice their penmanship. Parental cooing
ensued.
I happened to be sitting next to the teacher, and I asked her about the
rumor I’d heard: that next year, every elementary-school kid in town
would be provided his or her own iPad. She said this pilot program was
being introduced only at the newly constructed school three blocks from
our house, which Josie will attend next year. “You’re lucky,” she
observed wistfully.
This seemed to be the consensus around the school-bus stop. The iPads
are coming! Not only were our kids going to love learning, they were
also going to do so on the cutting edge of innovation. Why, in the face
of this giddy chatter, was I filled with dread?
It’s not because I’m a cranky Luddite. I swear. I recognize that iPads,
if introduced with a clear plan, and properly supervised, can improve
learning and allow students to work at their own pace. Those are big ifs
in an era of overcrowded classrooms. But my hunch is that our school
will do a fine job. We live in a town filled with talented educators and
concerned parents.
Frankly, I find it more disturbing that a brand-name product is being
elevated to the status of mandatory school supply. I also worry that
iPads might transform the classroom from a social environment into an
educational subway car, each student fixated on his or her personalized
educational gadget.
But beneath this fretting is a more fundamental beef: the school system,
without meaning to, is subverting my parenting, in particular my fitful
efforts to regulate my children’s exposure to screens. These efforts
arise directly from my own tortured history as a digital pioneer, and
the war still raging within me between harnessing the dazzling gifts of
technology versus fighting to preserve the slower, less convenient
pleasures of the analog world.
What I’m experiencing is, in essence, a generational reckoning, that
queasy moment when those of us whose impatient desires drove the tech
revolution must face the inheritors of this enthusiasm: our children.
It will probably come as no surprise that I’m one of those annoying
people fond of boasting that I don’t own a TV. It makes me feel noble to
mention this — I am feeling noble right now! — as if I’m taking a brave
stand against the vulgar superficiality of the age. What I mention less
frequently is the reason I don’t own a TV: because I would watch it
constantly.
My brothers and I were so devoted to television as kids that we created
an entire lexicon around it. The brother who turned on the TV, and thus
controlled the channel being watched, was said to “emanate.” I didn’t
even know what “emanate” meant. It just sounded like the right verb.
This was back in the ’70s. We were latchkey kids living on the brink of a
brave new world. In a few short years, we’d hurtled from the miraculous
calculator (turn it over to spell out “boobs”!) to arcades filled with
strobing amusements. I was one of those guys who spent every spare
quarter mastering Asteroids and Defender, who found in video games a
reliable short-term cure for the loneliness and competitive anxiety that
plagued me. By the time I graduated from college, the era of personal
computers had dawned. I used mine to become a closet Freecell Solitaire
addict.
Midway through my 20s I underwent a reformation. I began reading, then
writing, literary fiction. It quickly became apparent that the quality
of my work rose in direct proportion to my ability filter out
distractions. I’ve spent the past two decades struggling to resist the
endless pixelated enticements intended to capture and monetize every
spare second of human attention.
Has this campaign succeeded? Not really. I’ve just been a bit slower on
the uptake than my contemporaries. But even without a TV or smartphones,
our household can feel dominated by computers, especially because I and
my wife (also a writer) work at home. We stare into our screens for
hours at a stretch, working and just as often distracting ourselves from
work.
Our children not only pick up on this fraught dynamic; they re-enact it.
We ostensibly limit Josie (age 6) and Judah (age 4) to 45 minutes of
screen time per day. But they find ways to get more: hunkering down with
the videos Josie takes on her camera, sweet-talking the grandparents
and so on. The temptations have only multiplied as they move out into a
world saturated by technology.
Consider an incident that has come to be known in my household as the
Leapster Imbroglio. For those unfamiliar with the Leapster, it is a
“learning game system” aimed at 4-to-9-year-olds. Josie has wanted one
for more than a year. “My two best friends have a Leapster and I don’t,”
she sobbed to her mother recently. “I feel like a loser!”
My wife was practically in tears as she related this episode to me. It
struck me as terribly sad that an electronic device had become, in our
daughter’s mind, such a powerful talisman of personal worth. But even
sadder was the fact that I knew, deep down, exactly how she felt.
This is the moment we live in, the one our childhoods foretold. When I
see Josie clutching her grandmother’s Kindle to play Angry Birds for the
10th straight time, or I watch my son stuporously soaking up a cartoon,
I’m really seeing myself as a kid — anxious, needy for love but willing
to settle for electronic distraction to soothe my nerves or hold tedium
at bay.
And if experiencing this blast from the past weren’t troubling enough, I
also get to confront my current failings as a parent. After all, we
park the kiddos in front of SpongeBob because it’s convenient for us,
not good for them. (“Quiet time,” we call it. Let’s please not dwell on
how sad and perverse this phrase is.) We make this bargain every day,
even though our kids are often restless and irritable afterward.
Back in the day, when my folks snapped off the TV and exhorted us to
pick up a book or go outside and play, they did so with a certain
cultural credibility. Everyone knew you couldn’t experience the “real
world” by sitting in front of a screen. It was an escape. Today, screens
are the real world, or at least the accepted means of making us feel a
part of that world. And they can no longer be written off as
mind-rotting piffle. “The iPad is an educational tool, Papa!” Josie
declared last month, after hearing me grouse about Apple’s efforts to
target the preschool demographic.
Her own experience learning to read is a case in point. We spent a year
coaxing her to try beginner books. Even with the promise of our company
and encouragement, it was a tough sell. Then her teacher sent home a
note about a Web site that allows kids to listen to stories, with some
rudimentary animation, before reading them and taking a quiz to earn
points. She has since plowed through more than 50 books.
Josie never fails to remind me that “the reading” is her least favorite
part of this activity. And when she does, I feel (once again) that I’m
face to face with myself as a kid: more interested in racking up points
than embracing the joys of reading. What I’m lamenting isn’t that she
prefers to read off a screen but that the screen alters and dilutes the
imaginative experience.
It is unfair, not to mention foolish, for me to expect my 6-year-old to
seek redemption in the same way I did, only at age 25. Her job is to
make the same sometimes-impulsive decisions I made as a kid (and
teenager and young adult). And my job is to let her learn her own
lessons rather than imposing mine on her.
Still, I can’t be the only parent feeling whiplashed by the pace of
technological changes, the manner in which every conceivable wonder —
not just the diversions but also the curriculums and cures, the
assembled beauty and wisdom of the ages — has migrated inside our
portable machines. Is it really possible to hand kids these magical
devices without somehow dimming their sense of wonder at the world
beyond the screen?
In the course of mulling this question, I stumbled across an odd trove
of videos (on YouTube, naturally) in which parents proudly record their
babies operating iPads. One girl is 9 months old. Her ability to
manipulate the touch screen is astonishing. But the clip is profoundly
eerie. The child’s face glows like an alien as she scrolls from app to
app. It’s like watching some bizarre inverse of Skinner’s box, in which
the child subject is overrun by choices and stimuli. She seems agitated
in the same way my kids are after “quiet time” — excited without being
engaged.
As I watched her in action, I found myself wondering how a malleable
brain like hers might be shaped by this odd experience of being the lord
of a tiny two-dimensional universe. And whether a child exposed to such
an experience routinely might later struggle to contend with the
necessary frustrations and mysteries of the actual world.
I realize the human brain is a supple organ. My daughter may learn to
use technology in ways I never have: to focus her attention, to
stimulate her imagination, to expand her sense of possibility. And I
know too that most folks view their devices as relatively harmless paths
to greater efficiency and connectivity.
But I remain skeptical.
Because aren’t we just kidding ourselves? When we whip out our
smartphones in line at the bank, 9 times out of 10 it’s because we’re
jonesing for a microhit of stimulation, or that feeling of power that
comes with holding a tiny universe in our fist.
The reason people turn to screens hasn’t changed much over the years.
They remain mirrors that reflect a species in retreat from the burdens
of modern consciousness, from boredom and isolation and helplessness.
It’s natural for children to seek out a powerful tool to banish these
feelings. But the only reliable antidote to such burdens, based on my
own experience, is not immersion in brighter and mightier screens but
the capacity to slow our minds and pay sustained attention to the world
around us. This is how all of us — whether artists or scientists or
kindergartners — find beauty and meaning in the unceasing rush of
experience. It’s how we develop empathy for other people, and the
humility to accept our failures and keep struggling. It’s what grants my
daughter the patience to wait for the cardinal who has taken to
visiting the compost bin on our back porch.
I imagine the iPad Josie receives at school next year will have access
to a vast archive of information and videos about cardinals, ones she’ll
be able to call up and peruse instantly. But no flick of the thumb will
ever make her suck in her breath as she does when, after five
excruciating minutes, an actual cardinal appears on the porch railing in
a flash of impossible red. I hope Josie remembers that all her life. I
hope we both do.