THE RACE
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I’m taking my youngest son to a mountain bike competition being held in a beautiful park in the Pre-Cordillera, where red rock cliffs rise high and straight amid the yellow carpets of spring wildflowers and the green of the wild grasses in this still-rainy season.
I brought my cell phone and put it in my bag just in case, but I fully intend not to take it out even once today. Yes, because it’s important to be with others—that’s what I tell myself—to be in the here and now: my son loves mountain biking, and at noon we’re meeting up with his friend and neighbor L., a nice 12-year-old boy who’s passing on his passion for the sport to my son, along with L.’s parents.
I need to stop wanting everything right away, stop living at a hundred miles an hour by doing three things at once while stressing that I can’t manage to do even more—and thus missing out on everything I was supposed to do in the first place.
And besides, I really need to dive seriously into this adventure and commit to the Cactus Diet, right?
Today, I won’t be using my phone
because I’ve decided to focus solely on my son’s competition. After this complete and certain success—I swear on my life—next time, I’ll leave my phone at home for a whole day; I won’t even bring it just in case.
Fast-forward to late afternoon—and I might as well just spoil the outcome:
Cellphone, Run 1.
I lost my son for a few minutes
and had to go find a security guard, give him my number, keep my cell phone close by in case the park staff found him before I did, all while staying on the phone with L.’s Mom so she could help me find my son, too.
Cellphone, run 2.
I pulled out my phone to take some lousy photos (I have no artistic sense and can only take lousy photos, despite the mountain’s vibrant reds, yellows, and greens) of my son because I thought he was so cute (even if you can’t tell from the pictures).
Cellphone, run 3.
I took out my phone to record videos of the finish line and send them to my family—it’s certainly no cinematic masterpiece, just two seconds of a poorly framed clip of a section of the trail at the bottom of a hill where you see a kid whizzing by, unrecognizable under his helmet.
Cellphone, run 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.
After sending the photos and videos, I looked every five minutes at my phone, eager to read the kind messages from my family—the “good jobs,” the encouragement, the hearts, the thumbs-ups—whatever!
Cellphone, run 17.
Finally, I took out my phone to coordinate plans for the evening with my husband and my two other sons once we got back from the competition.
It was all very well for me to watch with disdain those families, from the grandmother to the little nephew, each sitting at a pic-nic table in the park, staring at their own screen, and think, after a moment of anxiety—“My goodness, what is the world coming to?”—“There, I’m right: cell phones are the scourge of humanity!”
What would I have done today without my cell phone? Didn’t it make my day?
After all, I was able to notify the organizers that I had lost my son in the chaos and confusion of the parking lot—and let my loved ones know that I had found him again. I was able to take photos and videos of his very first competition. I was able to receive reactions almost instantly that filled me with joy. I was able to keep organizing family life from a distance.
I’ve forgotten now how we used to do things before WhatsApp… Did we wait until we got home to recount the day’s adventures in detail? Did we plan dinner and the evening’s activities first thing in the morning, or did we just wing it when we got home?
It seems impossible now not to say it right away, not to share it immediately…
But wouldn’t it be just as good? Or even better?
To share unreservedly the joy of being here, in this gorgeous setting of yellow and ochre, with L.’s parents—that is, with the people who are here?
To save all the adventures and mishaps I’m no stranger to—with my three stubborn boys and my penchant for poorly organized outings—for the dinner table? To not break down the joy of seeing my child push their limits, have fun, and learn into dozens of short messages, but to keep that joy intact?
Wouldn’t a memory—even a vague one, even a buried one, that resurfaces only from time to time—fill my heart with joy just as much as a grainy video?
Doesn’t sharing too much ultimately spoil the joy of sharing?
I don’t know.
But if I manage to leave my phone at home at the next competition and still find my son, lost in the middle of the pickup trucks, I’ll tell you it’s possible.
Or not.
Give up my smartphone?
But what kind of crazy race have I gotten myself into?
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Translation of the text by Deepl.com and her author