Tiny Hands

I often see young children effortlessly using their parents' smartphones. In those moments, I feel a mix of admiration and pity. On the one hand, it’s impressive how, at such a young age, they can navigate a device that is as advanced as it is accessible. It’s fascinating to see how companies like Apple and Google design their devices to be so enticing and intuitive that you’d almost want to taste them (it’s not just me saying that—these are actual words of Apple founder Steve Jobs).

Children intuitively understand that touching the screen is enough to manipulate the (digital) world. No abstract metaphors like desktops or virtual folders—just touch, and something happens! It’s no wonder these devices hardly come with manuals. “So user-friendly that instructions are unnecessary,” you can almost hear the makers say. Perhaps it’s a backhanded compliment when I admit that I find it remarkable how effortlessly children find their way around a smartphone.

Yet, on the other hand, I also feel pity—not just for the children, but perhaps even more for the parents. I imagine how many battles they’ve fought until, at the umpteenth tantrum, they thought: “Fine, if this makes everyone happy.” But I wonder, what is the long-term cost of that temporary peace? The phone is often compared to the television or computer, both of which I spent hours on as a child. “And we turned out fine,” you might think optimistically. But is that really true?

The smartphone is far more than a smaller version of the TV; it’s an interactive, all-in-one device that you carry everywhere. Perhaps it’s that constant accessibility that makes us stop considering alternatives. Why bring a coloring book, a storybook, or a stuffed animal when your phone offers all of these in one? No lugging things around, nothing to lose, no tears. Your phone is always there, and apart from battery life, nothing stops you. “Doesn’t the smartphone make it incredibly hard for parents to take other forms of entertainment seriously?” I wonder.

After all these inner debates, I often arrive at an uncomfortable, self-centered conclusion: maybe I’m simply projecting my own fears onto others. Maybe I’m the one who can’t live without my phone, using these situations to mask my own discomfort. Maybe I want to “save” that child to ease my own guilt over my screen time. In short, perhaps I should first look inward before I meddle in others’ affairs, I realize.

But then, one final thought occurs. Perhaps it’s precisely my experience—along with becoming a little older and wiser—that makes me worry about the younger generation. I know firsthand what a smartphone can do to your mental well-being; after all, I once tried living without one for a month. Maybe I’m trying to telepathically share those lessons with parents and children when I see tiny fingers swiping across a screen again. I know it likely won’t make a difference, which is why I wrote this column—hoping it’s read on a smartphone.

And then, with a sigh, comes the final, almost philosophical thought: ultimately, it’s all about the right intentions—and perhaps that is the most open to interpretation.

This article was originally published in Dutch on Metro Nieuws.