The Gift of Presence

Have you ever left the house and forgotten your phone? You panic, groan, and think, “How am I supposed to get by without my phone?!” This is all of us. Our phone is often the first thing we check when we wake up, the last thing we check before bed, and countless times in between. It’s our constant companion. It remembers things for us, holds our to-do lists, stores our photos, accesses one-click shopping, and provides a welcome dopamine hit when we just need to decompress and mindlessly scroll. “My whole life is on my phone!” we say. But it also takes life from us, and we don’t even realize it until we find ourselves suddenly without it.

After the panic settles, we may realize how much more we notice the world around us when our phone isn’t within arms reach. Without our phones to look at, we look up and see our child learning a new skill in a swim lesson, we hear their chatter in the backseat after school, we notice the formation of clouds, and we make eye contact with others in the waiting room. Our mind isn’t preoccupied with responding to that text or checking our Instagram account. It will have to wait. Instead, our mind is free to rest, pray, and soak in the moments happening around us. Our life isn’t on our phones. Life is what happens when we look up from our screens.

A few months ago I read a life-changing book, “Hands-Free Mama: A Guide to Putting Down the Phone, Burning the To-Do List, and Letting Go of Perfection to Grasp What Really Matters,” by Rachel Macy Stafford. It would be easier to show you what words I didn’t find convicting, as nearly every page of my copy is covered in pink highlights and scribbled notes. Whether or not you’re a parent, Stafford’s book will cause you to stop and look closely at your habitual distractions. In every anecdote she shared about her struggle to stay off her phone and stay present with her children, I saw myself, and my heart sank. Even worse, that same week my son drew a picture of me with “stuck-itis.” When I asked what kind of disease that was, he said, “It’s when your phone is stuck to you.” Oof. I needed to do better.

In the weeks since finishing the “Hands-Free Mama” book, I’ve implemented some healthier practices when it comes to being less distracted (by my phone in particular). But old habits are hard to break, and I’ve found myself slipping back into my familiar ways. So, I’m going to take you along with me as I give the gift of being present this holiday season. It will prove to be a challenge, seemingly insurmountable at times, but I believe I will see the fruits of my efforts every day and those fruits will motivate me to keep going. I encourage you to take it up with me if you feel so inclined. Let’s take The Hands-Free Pledge: “I’m becoming Hands-Free. I want to make memories, not to-do lists. I want to feel the squeeze of my child’s arms, not the pressure of overcommitment. I want to get lost in conversation with people I love, not consumed by a sea of unimportant emails. I want to be overwhelmed by sunsets that give me hope, not by overloaded agendas that steal my joy. I want the noise of my life to be a mixture of laughter and gratitude, not the intrusive buzz of cell phones and text messages. I’m letting go of distraction, disconnection, and perfection to live a life that simply, so very simply, consists of what really matters,” (Stafford).

My first step is to delete my to-do list. I’m cringing just thinking about it. I often joke that Siri is my true brain. I don’t know what I did before I had her in my life. (I remember something about notepads, pens, and sticky notes, but it’s all a blur.) I now rely on Siri to remember everything for me and keep my ongoing list safely stored in my phone for me to check and recheck daily. Whenever my kids tell me about an upcoming event or need for school, they simply say, “Mom, put it in your phone.” We all know my natural memory is completely unreliable at this point, as it’s been collecting metaphorical cobwebs for the last several years. Anyhow, the to-do list on my phone is lengthy. No matter how many things I delete from it each day, there’s always more to add. It’s so easy to become a slave to it. I’ll never be truly caught up. How much do I miss because of my preoccupation with what I have yet to do? If my list disappeared, perhaps I’d spend more time on what I simply feel compelled to do in the moment. I imagine I’ll get more meaningful things done that way.

Next, I am going to block off periods of my day in which my phone is off-limits to me. We’ve always had a “no phones at the dinner table” rule, but it’s no longer enough. I’ve found my best conversations with my family happen when my phone is nowhere in sight. For me, this means from the time I wake until I drop my kids off at school, and again from the time I pick my kids up from school through the time I put them to bed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve rushed downstairs in a hurried frenzy to load my kids in the car, missing the opportunity to pray for their day and connect with them over breakfast, all because I was on my phone. I’ll need to be intentional in keeping my phone put away in my purse while in the car with my kids; it’s too easy to check email or send a quick text at a stoplight. After school, I want to sit and go through their folders, noticing details in their art projects, improvements in their writing, and listening to the events of their day. I want to patiently engage in their homework assignments, resisting the urge to just let them figure it out on their own while I sit in peace on my phone. Leaving my phone downstairs as we head up for bedtime is an important one too. It’s so easy to just sit and scroll social media while I’m waiting for my kids to brush their teeth and get their pajamas on (those small tasks take forever some nights). But when I choose to be present, I’m able to listen to their silly banter as they stand side by side over their bathroom sinks. I notice how carefully my daughter lays out her pajamas to face the right direction before she pulls them on. I laugh at the way my son slathers on his body lotion and shouts “Goodnight!” through his window to the neighborhood. I don’t want to miss any of it anymore. My phone will stay downstairs, in a drawer, or in another room when my kids are with me.

How about those little moments of quiet we have: standing in line at the grocery store, waiting in the doctor’s office, or laying in bed before the rest of the family wakes up. Those are the moments we take advantage of the peace and pull out our phones to sift through the latest news headlines and social media posts or clean out our inboxes. On our last trip to Disneyland, I noticed how many people had their faces buried in their phones while waiting in line for rides. They were surrounded by their families and friends, spending the day at “the happiest place on Earth” to make magical memories together, and yet, they were missing it. If you’ve ever been to Disneyland you know you spend more time standing in lines than you do on actual rides. Those are the opportunities to connect with your loved ones. “What we do while we wait with our children does matter. With each minute spent texting, surfing the Internet, checking social media, or reading emails, a chance to connect with our loved ones is lost. A chance to nurture our relationship is lost. A chance to make a memory is lost. A chance to be the parent our children want and need is lost,” (Stafford). There’s so much I don’t notice when I choose my screen over my environment. Some strangers need my eye contact and an encouraging smile. There are opportunities to teach my children about the world. There are so many moments I miss acknowledging Him throughout my day because I’m too busy acknowledging my phone. I’m going to strive to make the most of the waiting.

Finally, I’ve noticed how irritable I get when I get interrupted by my time on my phone. If I’m in the middle of sending an email, searching for a recipe, or watching a video and my kids interject with “Mom! Watch this!” I can’t seem to keep my eyes from rolling or holding in that heavy sigh escaping my mouth. And it’s not just time on my phone, it’s anything on my to-do list. If I’m in the middle of accomplishing what I deem an important task, I find it terribly inconvenient to step away and look at my daughter’s gazillionth Lego creation. Why is it so hard to look up? When I’m knee-deep in dinner prep, homework help, and diffusing a fight between the kids, why is it so hard to make eye contact with my husband when he walks in the door? It’s hard because I’m placing more value on my list than I am on my relationships. From now on: “No matter what I am in the middle of doing, No matter how inconvenient it is to look up, No matter how busy I think I am, When my children walk in the room, When my children hop in the car, When my children and I are reunited after a separation, The world is going to stop for a moment,” (Stafford).

Just last week after my daughter had gone to bed, I peeked my head in to say one last “goodnight” before I headed downstairs. She was sitting up, crying. I went in and sat down next to her, soon learning she was missing her friends, a lot. The night before she’d had a sleepover and her bedroom floor had been packed tight with sleeping bags and giggling girls. Now it felt so lonely to her. I snuggled in next to her and what could’ve been a quick reassuring hug and a, “Go back to sleep,” turned into a 45-minute girl talk. We laid side by side in her bed, ignoring the time on the clock. I chose to be present, and I’ll never regret it. The next day while talking to my mom on FaceTime, my daughter said, “Lola! Last night, Mommy snuggled with me for a long time in my bed. That’s the luckiest thing that could happen to me.” What greater motivation could I need?

So with my readers as my witness and my accountability, I am kicking off this holiday season with a fresh dose of perspective. I am resolving to notice more, look up from my screen more, and worry less about my to-do’s and more about showing up for the people that matter to me. I’ve never once had a real connection with my kids, my husband, or a friend, in which I walked away wishing I’d spent my time any other way. ‘Tis the season for giving presence. Join me, won’t you?