I can guess what books Anthony Albanese took to the beach this summer. The Australian Prime Minister has just announced that the government will ban children from using social media apps. The exact age limit has yet to be decided, but it is expected to be between 14 and 16 years old, and facial recognition technology will be used to ensure compliance. “Enough is enough,” Albanese says. “What we want to see is young Australians getting outside more to play sport and interact with each other in normal ways, and spending less time online.”
This is a near perfect summary Anxious Generationan international bestseller by Jonathan Haidt. Published six months ago, the book argues that smartphones are destroying childhood and causing an epidemic of mental illness.
According to social psychologists, the cure is twofold: first, we must take smartphones away from young children’s hands, and second, we must build their self-confidence and resilience by taking them into the real world, letting them play freely and take risks.
This second part may be even more troubling than the first. Risk-averse parenting was on the rise long before the invention of the smartphone. Increasing urbanization, traffic accidents, smaller family sizes, and a growing safety-conscious culture all contribute to growing parental anxiety and helping each generation hold on to their kids a little tighter.
Screens have fueled this obsession, making it easier to lock our kids indoors without complaint, and even when we do let them out, we keep watching them, either literally, like the electronic tags worn by Zara Tindall’s daughter, or via tracking devices on our smartphones.
Ironically, this overprotection doesn’t actually keep children safe. How can children become competent, responsible, positive, and wise except through real-life experiences? How can children learn from their mistakes if they are not left alone to make them?
The best thing I did “parenting” this summer was dropping my kids and their three cousins off at a secluded bend in the river and leaving them there overnight. The kids wanted to try camping without the adults.
It didn’t work. They forgot the pump for their air tents, so they had to roll them out on the ground and fold them up like a tortilla wrap. It rained all night, they kept rolling down the slope to the river, nobody slept a wink, and in the morning their only breakfast was marshmallows. They came home pale, shivering with cold, and with tics all over their bodies. It was a disaster, but well worth it.
Snorers, unite!
The headline reads, “There’s new hope for snorers and their partners.” As both a snorer and the partner of a snorer myself, I can’t help but feel a little offended. Who said we were hoping for this “new hope”? (An epilepsy drug found to keep the upper airway open and reduce nighttime oscillations)
I can’t think of a more calming sound in the world than the initial rumble of my snoring husband, which escalates into a loud roar like a diesel-engine lawnmower.
All my previous lovers were quiet sleepers, and we sought silence from each other. I lay awake for hours wondering when I would finally be able to snooze in peace, dreading my unladylike snorting. Now that I share my bed with my warthog buddy, I can finally relax. We don’t mind each other’s noises. Plus, I can barely hear myself.
