Alone Together

On my run, yesterday, I listened to an interview with a psychologist about the phenomenon of being “alone together.”  How our gadgets are fostering a culture of distraction, a poverty of social skills among youth, and an inability for people to be comfortable being alone.

Online—offline is the new balancing act.  How much should we engage through technology and how much should we engage person-to-person?  

I am struck by how much my gadgets give me the illusion that I’m participating—that I’m connecting with people.  Shooting a message to a old friend on Facebook that I may not have otherwise reconnected with, texting a quick note to my husband during the day, laughing with Sophia over an old Muppets clip on YouTube.  

But tonight I called a cousin I hadn’t spoken to in years, and I was struck by the fact that there is no substitute for hearing each other’s voice.  We never could have had the conversation we did in an email or a PM, listening to the nuances of emotion in each other’s voices, walking down a meandering path into the past, each of our shared memories triggering a new one.  

Another friend called me to say that he wouldn’t be able to see me next weekend.  I immediately felt dismay because there is no substitute, not even voice, for seeing someone in person.  To observe being listened to, and be observed doing the same.  What we fail to communicate in words is conveyed through the eyes.  

Even Skype and Facetime, with the video experience it offers, deprives one of the ability to look into another’s eyes, unless you do the unnatural—staring into the camera instead of the other person before you.  

So when Kevin asked me this evening what I objected to about screen time for Sophia, I found myself having difficulty articulating my fear.  I do think there is such a thing as quality television/movies/computer games, etc.  With the assistance of on demand, the public library, and YouTube, we can monitor the content and limit the commercials—the two things I’m most concerned about.  

I also know that complete restriction will only backfire.  At this point, she has about ½ hour of computer time, 1½ hours of movie time (or two half hours of tv time), and a couple YouTube videos thrown in per week.  Kevin suggested that this was not enough, given the fact that at a birthday party this weekend, she was the only child with her eyes glued to the television set between getting up to bowl.  

The source of my fear is that I don’t know where the tipping point is.  When do we pass that magical number of minutes where she will no longer stare at the video advertising sushi at Wegmans, hungry for it’s glowing image, but do not venture so far over the line that it becomes a substitute for real life.  For real engagement.  

I don’t know where that line is.  I struggle with it myself.  I feel naked without my cell.  I have felt shame when Sophie has asked, “Mommy could you please stop looking at your phone?”  I have had to consciously put it in the trunk of my car while on a date with my husband, so as not to be tempted to interrupt our time together with a Saturday night email check.  

Who is trying to get in touch with me on a Saturday night?  No one.

As a result, I don’t know how to teach Sophia how to find the line without providing some boundaries around it.  Without having a time to be on and a time to be off.  

What She Has to Say

It is 6:57 and Sophie’s voice wafts into my room via the central air ducts:

“I woke up!”
“Sophia is SO funny.”
“Where is mommy?”
“Mommy is sleeping.”
(The sound of her throwing one of her stuffed animals overboard.)
“Puppy fell down.”
“Sophia is here.”
“Mommy is NOT here.”

I climb out of bed. She hears the floorboards creak under my feet.
“Get out. GET OUT!”

I make my way to the bathroom. The play-by-play continues.
“Mommy is going potty.”

I open her door. She is all exuberance and smiles.
“Hi, Mommy. I woke up!”

I wonder, hoisting her out of her crib, burying my face in the warm, fragrant curve of her neck: Will there come a time when I stop marveling at the miracle of all of this…that I made this person…that she is talking, articulating thoughts that are completely separate from my own? Years down the line, when the novelty has worn off and I don’t like what she’s saying…

“But Spike says that condoms ruin the experience for him.”

Or “God, Mom, it’s not like I’m an addict. Didn’t you ever experiment?”

Or the simple, but effective, “I hate you! You’re the reason my life sucks!”

…will I be able to recapture the wonder of this moment then?

She hones her new skill, chatting incessantly about anything and everything around her. And with it comes the blessedly beautiful mistakes.
“All aboard, Kumbaya.”

My own words, recycled:
“DON’T touch it. Just LOOK at it.”

Constant demands:
“Talk about farm animals!”
“Mommy sit RIGHT HERE!”
“Read a book-y! Read a book-y!”

Refusals:
“Diaper is FINE! No diaper change!”

Dizzying repetition:
“What’s that? What’s that? What’s that? What’s that?”

And sentiments so innocent and sweet, they fill the cavity of my chest:
While eating dinner: “Rabbits eat grass. Prairie dogs eat food, like Sophie.”
Looking out the car window, “I see the moon. Sophie touch it. Grab it.”
Noting our separateness, “Mommy’s foot hurts. Sophie’s foot does NOT hurt.”

When Sophia was just a cooing infant, I remember staring down at her, wondering what she would sound like when she finally spoke: Sophia’s voice is squeaky, full of elation, and without-a-doubt, the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.