Unplugging

In the spirit of the 19th century transcendentalists, I assigned an experiment to my juniors this past weekend. They were to go technology free - no texting, social media, computer/video games, or smartphone apps - for 30 hours. It was experiment in what Thoreau called "essential living," but I wasn't ordering them to become Luddites. Many homes buzz with the constant din of sound and picture so TV, radio, and phone calls were allowed.

What if we cheat? More than a few asked, eyeing me cautiously.  

So what if you do?
I paused. They stared back at me.

You'll have to come in Monday morning and look me in the eye and tell me you didn't cheat. 

Silence. Message received. 

Because this was a brand new project, I decided to join them. I was thrilled with the prospect of 'unplugging' for the weekend and not constantly checking email, social media, and responding to texts. The thought of being 'off the grid' was empowering. I could get through my day just fine without this aluminum rectangle. The morning proved me right. The house was cleaned, dishwasher emptied, laundry started, bed stripped, and I was out the door to run errands by 10 AM. It was going to be easy.

Though I explained my participation to my husband and family members, being unplugged had its share of frustrations for others. Because the reminders app on my smartphone was off limits, I wrote the grocery list out by hand for my husband on Saturday morning. We chatted about the week's grocery needs and I left the list on the counter. As we were off on our respective errands, my phone rang.

There's nothing on the grocery list, he said.
What do you mean?
I looked at the list on my phone, and there's nothing there.
That's because I made a paper list. I'm not using apps, remember?
<exasperated sigh> This is stupid.
I disagree, I said, smiling as I rattled off what items I could recall from memory.

The biggest advantage from unplugging was being present and in the moment. We celebrated Christmas Saturday night with my sister, who was home from Chicago. She was giving C a cozy coupe car and it was unveiled after we had exchanged smaller presents. Instead of recording the moment on video or snapping pictures like a papparaza, I sat and watched as C's little hand covered her mouth in astonishment as the car was wheeled into the livingroom.

Lookit! she cried. And I did. I didn't demand that she pose or urge her to look my way. I just watched.

For all the joy found in being present and relying on myself and not my phone, there were some struggles. Sunday dragged on. Normally, I get caught up on the week's news with NPR and the New York Times. Instead, I played with C and her new car, tackled some grading, and watched the clock.

While C fought her afternoon nap, I took her downstairs to listen to some Christmas music. I missed having CDs of Bing Crosby, Billie Holiday, and Dean Martin on repeat play during the holidays. Since Pandora was off limits, I cued up a few CDs, hit shuffle, and then play. Nothing. I switched settings and tried again. Still nothing. C sensed my frustration.

Get Daddy? she inquired, furrowing her little brow.
No, Mommy can figure it out. I tried a different remote. Still no music.
Get Mommy phone? 
I shook my head, not about to explain why we just weren't listening to music on my phone like we always did. Frustrated and mildly disappointed, we went upstairs. I realized we had never listened to music from the stereo, the way I had always listened to music growing up. For all C knew, music only came from phones  

Upstairs, I felt somewhat bewildered as I checked the clock and calculated how much longer it would be until I could start up the Pandora Christmas station and clean out my email inbox.Was I really this dependent on something I thought I could easily go without? Where had the independent spirit who roamed Europe in college gone? The girl who ordered EuroRail tickets over the phone and marched through Paris and Rome with only a Lonely Planet guide and a map? I couldn't even make a CD player work.

3 PM came and I logged into email and Facebook and scrolled through postings and messages. The mindless though comforting routine had resumed. There had been no breaking news, no major crises. After ten minutes or so, I was done catching up with what I thought I was missing. For the remainder of the day, my phone sat on the counter. Then something strange happened. Now that the 30 hours was up and I could use my phone, I didn't. That evening, I was wildly productive with the grading and lesson planning I had brought home to work on. I didn't have to abstain from the time suck that is social media and yet I did.

The experiment had been a struggle, but had been rewarding, too. I savored the memory of C's excitement when her toy car rolled into the living room, though I have no photos or video on my phone to share. The real-time conversation on Sunday morning with my sister over coffee was a rare treat. I had written a letter instead of an email, made a list by hand instead of a reminder notification. And the curious satisfaction of not checking my phone even though I could? There's no app for that.

talk to me

I'd like to think C is advanced for her age. She's 17 months old, but is currently working on the twos. I don't want to call them terrible. Trying, maybe, but not terrible. Granted, this has just started, so maybe in time I will come over to the 'terrible' side. 

Her vocabulary is limited, which is part of the problem. Her commands, questions, and exclamations all involve pointing and a grunt or whine. If I don't follow her request, the whine becomes a squeal, the grunt  an angry bark. I bought one of those 'teach your baby sign-language' books but got as far as "all done" and "more." I guess I just assumed that the words would come before the connection between hand gesture and noun.

C has a few words down: mama, dada, ball, more, na-na (for bananas), bowl, all done, and bye bye. She can get "Nally" out for our cat, Natalieportman, but has no exclamation for her grandparents or day care buddies. 

When her temper reaches its boiling point, she lets out an angry, disbelieving cough as if I could dare deny her a trip down the basement stares or another viewing of the "Gangnam Style" video on the iPad. The cough becomes a slow, windup whereupon she unleashes a fury that can only come from the frustrated and misunderstood.

"What do you want?" I ask, but to no avail. She points and stomps, sometimes at the very thing she has been denied. I keep calm, knowing that my reaction will only fuel her reaction. After a few minutes of screams and tears, she settles back down, distracted by a block tower or her plastic grocery cart. I've become a master of distraction when it comes to the toddler meltdown. Sometimes she gets what she wants; other times, she is able to get over her disappointment after a few minutes of wailing.

She's storing all these words in her head; I know she is. Right now it feels like she'll never be able to tell me what she wants, but I know one day the dam will break and she will unleash verbiage on her father and me that will make us wonder what life was like before she could talk.