Set aside visions of sleek iPhones and glimmering smartwatches for a moment, because my 10-year-old’s very first telephone does not fit the mold of today’s hyper-modern devices. Instead of being slipped into a pocket or strapped to a wrist, his inaugural phone is literally anchored to the wall of my office, immovable and conspicuously old-fashioned. It is a classic button-style landline, its receiver tethered by a spiraling, springy cord that stretches just far enough to reach the hallway before tugging back. In every respect, it is the polar opposite of the seamless convenience we have come to expect from our digital era. And yet, much to my surprise and delight, he absolutely adores it.
For my son, this antiquated device represents far more than a piece of outdated technology. To him, it is a genuine gateway into a newfound sense of autonomy. The mere act of selecting a friend’s number and pressing the physical buttons, the ritual of cheerfully answering with an eager “hello,” and even the unfamiliar but instructive irritation of encountering a busy signal—all these small experiences combine to make him feel as though he is taking spirited steps toward independence. Watching him embrace these moments also transforms this landline experiment into something much larger for me: an intentional act of parenting that pushes back against the pressure to give children constant digital gratification. It is a reminder that communication can exist stripped of apps, pings, or endless scrolling distractions. Ironically enough, a phone that cannot leave the room seems to provide him with the purest form of freedom he craves.
I will confess openly that this experiment was not born from sheer originality but rather from influence. After being inundated one too many times on Instagram with polished advertisements for the *Tin Can*—a Seattle-based startup proudly marketing minimalist “dumb phones”—I eventually surrendered. The idea resonated powerfully with me because my husband, a high school teacher, provides a continual stream of cautionary tales about the corrosive effects of smartphones on adolescent development. He speaks of teenagers clustered shoulder-to-shoulder in crowded hallways, their eyes glazed and fixated on glowing screens, hammering out messages to peers beside them instead of simply talking face-to-face. Layer onto that bleak picture the ongoing tragedies of cyberbullying, and I was convinced enough to act. After all, I myself progressed through an entire school career without ever grasping a smartphone in my palm; surely my son could withstand this slower, more human-paced introduction to communication as well.
Yet another factor influenced my decision, one less philosophical and more rooted in sheer exhaustion. Somewhere along the line, I had become not merely my son’s parent but also his personal social coordinator, forever mediating between him and his peers. Each sporting-update text, each negotiation of a playdate, each timid request of “can I call so-and-so?” passed through me. By age ten, I had been confidently handling our household phone with full independence, trained by my parents to present myself respectfully with a rehearsed line: “Labberton’s residence, this is Kinsey speaking.” By contrast, my son’s limited forays into telephone etiquette consisted of awkwardly taking the receiver only after adults had exchanged pleasantries. Unsurprisingly, his conversational skills resembled those of a feral cat tossed into civilized society—charming, perhaps, but utterly unrefined.
Despite this lack of polish, his desire for autonomy has only intensified. He longs to seize control of his own budding social world and to take initiative in arranging his life, even in minor ways. I want him to grow into that responsibility, to practice thoughtfulness and intentionality rather than impulsiveness. Thus, we find ourselves metaphorically stepping into a time capsule, transported back to the early 1990s, with a device identical to the one mounted on my parents’ kitchen wall in 1992. And astonishingly, it works exactly as I hoped.
The very first night our new Tin Can was operational, my son brimmed with excitement, eager to call not just one or two, but essentially every friend who had ever occupied space in his memory. This enthusiasm immediately butted up against a major obstacle: dumb phones are stubbornly analog. There was no convenient digital address book, no effortless speed dial, and certainly no saved contacts within the handset. Recognizing this limitation, we embraced the analog experience to its fullest: together we compiled a handwritten directory with pen and paper, carefully curated with only approved phone numbers. I even leveraged the Tin Can’s companion app to program which numbers he was authorized to dial, ensuring his social outreach remained safe and controlled. There would be no anonymous prank calls coming from our landline, at least not under my watchful eye.
Of course, mastering the mechanics of a call was only half the challenge; the greater question loomed: what, exactly, should he say when someone picked up? Never having absorbed the scripted etiquette my parents drilled into me, he fumbled. Suddenly I found myself channeling maternal ghosts of the past, instructing him gently yet firmly: “Try: ‘Hello, this is Wells. May I please speak to Charlie?’” I could practically hear echoes of my own childhood lessons reverberating through me as I guided him. And then—success. His friend’s voice finally came through the earpiece, and I understood instantly that the experiment had achieved its first real milestone. My role rapidly diminished; my son’s animated laughter and eager chatter filled the air, affirming that he was finally savoring a space of social independence all his own.
Barely a few days later, the transformation was even more evident. He marched down the stairs with an air of authority, announcing to me that he had already orchestrated his very first self-arranged playdate and that the gathering would commence within the hour. Admittedly, this last-minute scheduling caused a minor inconvenience for me, but I swallowed the impulse to intervene. After all, this unprompted initiative was exactly the goal. His exhilaration transported me directly back to my own childhood, when the only barrier standing between me and a cherished friend’s companionship was the steady rhythm of a dial tone.
Ultimately, this is the experience I want to gift him—not the flattened, impersonal chatter of a digital text thread filled with emojis, not the hollow amusement of endlessly scrolling memes, nor the poisonous undercurrents of online forums. Instead, I want him to recognize in times of celebration or difficulty alike the unparalleled comfort that comes from hearing the immediate tone and inflection of a friend’s living voice on the other end of a line. The landline, stripped of modern accoutrements, holds the capacity to nurture precisely that kind of habit. If such an old-fashioned device can manage to instill in my son both independence and genuine human connection, then I am convinced we embody the proof that occasionally having *less* technology actually amounts to immeasurably *more*.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/landline-independence-social-circle-kids-2025-9
