My younger son just turned 20. We went to visit and, at his suggestion, hiked up a hill together. A birthday hike! Only a few years ago, he barely tolerated family walks, slinking off to search for a shred of 3G; I have a great photo of him and his brother in the Icelandic wilderness, surrounded by breathtaking natural wonder, heads bowed, staring at their phones. I took one this weekend of him and his dad cheerfully trekking up a Peak District path in a snowstorm while my head exploded with amazement.
But that’s it – no more teens. No more trails of protein powder and unwashed beakers (I’ve lost track of the one that kicked off a multi-year battle of wills, ending in me dumping it in the garden; maybe a fox took it). I’ll probably never confiscate a phone again, or discover a secret second phone and wearily confiscate that too, or empty the wastepaper basket to find it full of unnervingly good imitations of my signature. I might occasionally put my phone under my pillow with the sound up in case of a 3am emergency, but it’s no longer a habit.
