Kathryn Jezer-MortonA columnist for the Cut covering modern family life I am living through a period of my adulthood that requires me to text way more than I want to. This is strictly social texting, not work related, and I suspect it’s the result of a few overlapping life circumstances, but that can’t be the only explanation. By the end of some days, I feel like my phone has been working me like a rented mule. It’s time to examine the norms and expectations we hold around texting, especially in the context of family life, because something needs to change. The first circumstance aggravating my texting habit is an unintended consequence of holding off on giving kids their own phone. Until my kid has a phone of his own, my phone becomes the locus of all his social planning, which means I’m receiving way more texts than I would be otherwise. In itself this is a minor inconvenience, not annoying enough to make me reconsider my decision to hold off on giving my kids phones until the seventh grade. But over time, it has worn me out — and, yes, this is part of the gendered nature of parenting. My husband’s phone does not bear the brunt of my son’s social world. When I’ve been out of town and the phone duties have shifted to him, he has been shocked. “On the weekend it’s like all there’s time to do is text other parents,” he told me. That is correct. Making plans on my son’s behalf is not a burden to me, but it has exposed me to the expectations of other families vis-à-vis how much to be in contact throughout the day. These are expectations with which I am out of step. When my sons were younger and would go over to friends’ houses, I would get updates — maybe a cute picture of the kids playing or a check-in about this or that. (“We’re getting ice cream, is that cool?”) I liked looking at the pictures, I really did, but I always felt a pang of guilt, because I never returned this favor with pics from my house, nor did I do much on-the-fly checking in. I acquired my minimalist texting habits a few years ago when we spent six months living in Mexico. Accustomed to being among the more laid-back parents in my home community, I was unnerved to learn that my behavior was comparatively anxious by the standards of the Mexican families we met. When I dropped my kids off for a playdate, I would ask when we should pick them up. Implied by this question is my awareness that my child is inherently burdensome and I would hate to impose any more than this family is willing to endure. This nervous habit of compulsive gratitude, genuflecting on my way out like a courtly servant taking leave of their lord, was not normal in our Mexican community. It actually seemed to annoy people — or at the very least confuse them. The question of when to pick our son up was often met with a shrug. At the end of the day sometime? Before bedtime? Playdates were expected to last the entire day, and I was expected to be no-contact for the duration. I learned to love this freedom — and enjoy the openness of hosting in this way, too. When we returned home, I never regained the appetite for our old way of doing things. When I’m hosting a kid and their parent is checking in unnecessarily, I want to shake them: Enjoy this time! I’ve got this! Your child is safe with me! Who benefits from the incessant interparental contact? I wonder if it’s sometimes a form of maternal self-soothing, a way of demonstrating conscientiousness to other parents and enjoying the reflected feeling of being seen as exceptionally caring. Two moms coordinating logistics over text can take on a spirit of passive-aggressive one-upmanship: Is there truly any detail too minute to check in about? Shall we spend the entire afternoon texting about kid minutiae and see who taps out first? Does Shaelynn need an extra water bottle for soccer? BTW the kids need red shin guards for the team photo, do u wanna borrow some of ours? If, like me, you yearn to put your phone down and forget about it for a few hours, the constant check-ins, considered very normal and good among moms (and some dads, although none who I know personally), can feel like the tightening of a vise grip on your skull. (In fact, vise grips is a safe phrase of sorts in my household, which I use when I feel like the demands of mom life are becoming unreasonable and I am reaching my limit of what I’m willing to cheerfully cosplay. I say it through gritted teeth: “The vise grips.” Then everyone knows it’s time to back off.) I reach my texting limit not only when I am coordinating my children’s social calendars, but when I’m tending to my own. Let’s say we’re planning to all meet up at the park at the end of the week for a picnic. My strong preference is that we name a time and place and I’ll see you all there — can’t wait! But, increasingly, this is not enough. A thick halo of text messages surrounds every hang. Who’s bringing what? What’s the plan B if we can’t get a picnic table? Does someone have an extra blanket? Did anyone text X and Y — let’s loop them in! All of this is done in the spirit of care, but it easily tips into something else, a presumption of entitlement to my time and attention. I’ll see you later. READ THE FULL STORY