Yesterday, as I pulled out my iPhone to snap a picture of the dudes playing basketball, Liam stopped in his tracks and ran over to me, patted my back pocket (where I keep it), and said, “Put back. Put back.” When I slid my phone into the pocket, he nodded at me, satisfied, and then handed me a basketball, which to him is like handing gold to a poor man. I was being rewarded.
I remember a time, a little over ten years ago, when I didn’t even own a cell phone. In fact, I was the only tech reporter in Austin who didn’t have a pager, a Palm, or a mobile, and I didn’t even have a computer — my old PowerMac from college, a thing that is no longer a thing, was boxed up — until I’d lived there for several months and realized I could probably afford a laptop. (Which was a Compaq. Which is also a thing that is no longer a thing.)
And now, I’m so chained to my smartphone that my two-year old recognizes that it could compete for my attention, and — when he isn’t walking up to me and asking where my phone is, because he wants to play with it – essentially reprimands me for it. Kind of makes me realize I should pick up Goodnight Moon more than Words With Friends. Then again, they never like to finish an entire book in tangible form, so maybe I need an app for that.