Answering the Bell
On modeling the behavior we expect from our kids
It started as an innocent conversation among good friends, tossing around ideas to help our kids better manage their phones.
One dad walked through the different strategies his family had tried before ending with what he believed mattered most: modeling the behavior he was asking of his kids.
Then he said why that was so difficult.
I’m willing to admit I’m addicted to my phone.
There were two things I admired about his perspective. First, kids can listen to everything we say, but they’ll ultimately decide whether it’s worth following by watching what we do. Second, he was willing to own his addiction.
I’ve found that one person’s vulnerability can open the door for others to look inward. It did for me.
I realized I was addicted to my phone.
If it’s anywhere within reach, I’ll subconsciously find a reason to pick it up.
I keep it nearby for what seems like good reasons — to be available if my family needs me, to read, to navigate, or to listen to music and podcasts.
Once it’s in my hand and unlocked, even if I picked it up with the best of intentions, it’s remarkable how quickly I drift into time-wasting rabbit holes.
Billions of dollars are spent each year by device makers and app creators designing products that keep us coming back. Chimes, vibrations, bright colors, and other notifications all tap into our brain's reward system.
If it were drugs or alcohol, friends and family would likely recognize the warning signs and feel compelled to intervene.
A device addiction?
It’s far easier to normalize.
No one stages an intervention because everyone in the room is holding the same device.
So there we all sit, parents and kids alike, staring into our screens, often missing the life happening right in front of us.
I can’t ask my kids to fix their addiction without first confronting my own.
What raises the stakes is that my brain is fully developed. Theirs isn’t.
Their brains are still wiring themselves in response to the world around them. If hours each day are spent jumping from one hit of stimulation to the next, that becomes their normal.
Quiet starts to feel uncomfortable. Boredom can create anxiety, and paying attention gets harder. Reading a book, having a long conversation, sitting alone with your thoughts, or simply noticing what’s happening around you all require a different kind of attention. The less we do those things, the more challenging they become to do well.
No rational parent would choose that for their kid.
Yet intervening isn’t easy.
Most kids have phones, and that’s how many of them socialize. If yours goes without one entirely, they will almost certainly face an inclusion disadvantage.
For us, it started with the basics. We wanted them to have a phone so we could stay connected and know where they were. Before long, the conversation shifted to Snapchat and other apps because that’s where everyone was sharing and communicating.
One parent said to me in defeat: It’s too late. The train has left the station.
As Covid set in back in 2020, a friend of mine shared a video he had produced introducing the concept of locus of control. At its core, it’s the belief that our lives are shaped by one of two perspectives.
Someone with an internal locus of control focuses on what they can influence and takes responsibility for the outcome.
Someone with an external locus of control tends to focus on the people, circumstances, and forces around them as the primary reason things happen.
The message arrived at an opportune time. As a small business owner and father of three young kids, Covid presented challenges I hadn’t faced before. It was easier to point outward than to own my part in it.
So I turned it into a game.
Whenever something frustrated me or didn’t go the way I hoped, I asked myself a simple question:
What part of this belongs to me?
I wasn’t trying to blame myself for everything. I was looking for what I could influence. It was surprisingly empowering. Instead of feeling like life was happening to me, I felt like I was back in the driver’s seat.
When it comes to our kids and their devices, it’s easy to adopt an external focus. We blame social media companies, device makers, schools, other parents, and culture. All of them play a role.
But none of them are responsible for raising my kids.
I am.
When I see a kid attached to their phone, I don’t fault them. The forces pulling them toward that screen are too powerful for them to face alone.
I remember a conversation with my daughter Bree.
Don’t worry, Dad. They won’t get me. I’m too smart.
She is smart.
But being smart isn’t enough.
She’s competing against teams of engineers, designers, and behavioral scientists whose job is to capture and keep her attention.
I’d like to think I’m smart too. And they got me.
As a family, we’ve chosen to take this journey together.
At our most recent family meeting, my wife and I started with an acknowledgment: if we expect our kids to build a healthier relationship with technology, we have to model it first.
I told my two older kids, Beau and Bree, that I think I got it wrong. I gave them their phones too early, and I was concerned about what I was seeing in their attention spans and dependence on their devices.
From there, we talked about two ideas that seemed to capture everyone’s attention.
The first was simply doing the math.
We used four hours a day because it has become common for many kids. What isn’t common is stopping to think about what that adds up to over a lifetime.
If a kid gets their first phone at 13 and spends an average of four hours a day on it until age 80, they’ll spend more than 97,000 hours on their phone.
More than 11 years of life.
If someone told you at the end of your life that you had spent more than 11 years looking at your phone, would you ever consciously choose that?
The second wasn’t about screen time. It was about who they are becoming. We talked about what it means for a developing brain to grow accustomed to constant stimulation.
Rather than make it another battle, we decided to build a plan together and turn it into a family challenge.
Everyone was in.
We defined what success would look like. We started tracking two things. Pickups and total screen time. Not perfection, just movement in the right direction.
The next step was deciding what to do when the urge to reach for our phones showed up.
Real change requires a plan before the temptation arrives.
Each of us created two lists: low-energy activities for when we wanted to relax and high-energy activities for when we wanted to move.
My own list included reading, writing, a walk around the block with a family member, or heading out for a hike or mountain bike ride.
The goal wasn’t to eliminate dopamine. It was to replace mindless scrolling with activities that leave us feeling better once we’re done.
A few years ago, after I had transitioned out of the day-to-day operations of my businesses, a customer reached out to me through LinkedIn.
She had a bad experience, hadn’t received the response she hoped for, and wanted me to get involved. She even asked if I would visit her property to see the damage my team had caused.
My first instinct was to stay out of it.
I copied her message and sent it to a peer group and asked:
How would you handle this?
One reply came with a chuckle.
Ha! About once a year, your number gets called. Time to answer the bell. As much as you’re probably tempted to avoid it, don’t. Go see her. It’ll do both of you some good.
He was right. Moments like this were rare, and getting closer to the customer renewed my empathy and made me a better leader. So I went.
I’ve thought about that advice many times since. Whenever I’m tempted to avoid something difficult, I hear the call to answer the bell.
I think the same applies to parenting in the age of smartphones and social media. I’ve stopped waiting for someone else to solve a problem that belongs to me.
I don’t believe the train has left the station. Not for my family, and not for yours.
Whether they’re 8, 18, or 38, your influence doesn’t end.
Maybe you start by admitting your own device addiction.
Then be the parent your kid needs.
No one else is responsible for raising them.
You are.