Find Something Real First

This morning at the farmers market on Ludlow, I watched my son’s fingers trace the edges of his tablet as he scrolled through a game that promised "infinite fun." He didn’t even look up when I asked if he wanted to pick some strawberries. That’s the moment I realized how much screen time has become part of our rhythm—like the way I used to wake up before the kids needed me, now it’s the quiet before the chaos.

I’ve been noticing how the blue light from his phone seems to seep into his eyes even when he’s not looking at it. Last week, he slept through dinner because he’d been gaming until midnight, his eyes tired and his voice thick with exhaustion. It’s not just the hours he spends—it’s the way his brain feels like it’s stuck in a loop, chasing tiny rewards that don’t fill him up. I’ve started asking him to turn off the screen an hour before bed, but it’s like trying to stop a river with your hands.

My daughter, who’s five, has become a master of the "quick fix" game. She’ll text her friend for five minutes, then ask me to read a story while she stares at her screen. I’ve learned that when kids use screens for something that feels like play—like a video game or a drawing app—they often lose the ability to focus on real-world tasks. It’s not about the screen itself, but how it changes the way they experience time and attention.

This past week, I tried to set a rule: no screens during family meals. My son initially resisted, but when we all sat together and ate pancakes, he finally put his phone away. It wasn’t a grand gesture—it was just us, the smell of warm bread, and the sound of his laughter. That’s the kind of small shift that matters more than any strict rule.

I’ve also started walking with my kids in the park every morning, even on Sundays. It’s not about competing with screens—it’s about creating space where their bodies and minds can move without the constant pull of digital noise. When they run through the grass, chasing butterflies or building forts out of sticks, their energy feels different. It’s not just physical; it’s a way of seeing the world without the filter of a screen.

My own sleep has improved since I stopped checking my phone before bed. I used to wake up at 3 a.m. worrying about work emails, but now I lie down and feel the quiet of the house. It’s not that I’ve stopped using technology—it’s that I’ve learned to use it differently. My kids don’t need me to be their screen time manager; they need me to be their presence.

I’ve been writing this workshop series for two years, and it’s finally coming together because I’ve stopped trying to fix everything at once. Last week, I sat with my daughter and read a story about a girl who learned to play outside. It wasn’t a lesson in screen time—it was a moment of connection. That’s what matters: the quiet moments where we don’t need to be on the same screen to feel close.

We don’t have to ban screens to protect our kids’ well-being. We just need to create space where their attention can wander freely—where the world isn’t just a digital one. This morning, I’ll take my son to the farmers market instead of his phone. And when he asks if he can play a game later, I’ll say, "Let’s find something real first." That’s how we build the kind of calm we all need.