The Corded Comeback

Rediscovering the Joy of Real Conversations in a Digital Age

Less than a week ago, I shared a Note and photo on Substack that unexpectedly garnered over 25,000 likes and counting. I mentioned that we’d bought an old-school phone to keep our kids off smartphones and included a picture of my son sprawled on the couch, a corded phone pressed to his ear, chatting with his grandmother.

I mention the number not to boast, but because I believe it points to something bigger that this picture tapped into. There is a hunger for the lost days of phone cords and real conversations. Judging by the thousands of comments and restacks, something inside many of us remembers that this way of connecting is better. We lost something sacred when we stopped talking to our family and friends and started scrolling instead. And now our children are missing out on some of what made our childhoods so special.

That photo churned up so much nostalgia—but also raised lots of questions, mainly: How did we do it? And how did we get buy-in from our kids?

The truth is, it’s been a long and sometimes difficult and very deliberate process.

We all know unrestricted access to screens isn’t good for kids—the research and studies are clear. And yet, we see it everywhere: endless scrolling, kids sitting side by side staring into their phones without speaking, and the growing tension and anxiety that come from being constantly “connected” and performing online. My husband and I saw what was happening and set out to do things differently with our kids.

We’ve worked hard to build a world where televisions, iPads, and smartphones don’t play a central role in our kids’ lives. Even when they were babies and toddlers, unless it was a movie we were watching as a family, we barely ever let them have screen time. And we got plenty of flack for it. My mother told me I was being too strict—that a little screen time wouldn’t kill them. But that “little” screen time can be a slippery slope. One show turns into two, and once a kid knows a device is available, they want it. They don’t want to sit at dinner waiting for food while adults talk—they want cartoons or games on a screen. And just try explaining to a toddler who knows a screen is right there that they can’t have it. It’s practically impossible. So we just made a rule that we don’t allow it.

Our decision to swim against the tide made for some awkward nights. We’d show up for dinner with friends or family, and all the other kids would be on screens while ours were coloring in the corner, annoyed at their parents “who just don’t get it.” But over time, they adapted.

Now at 9 and 11, they grab a yo-yo, a deck of cards, a journal, or a book before we leave the house, just in case the wait somewhere is long. The deck-of-cards trick came from a summer in Europe, where we noticed that barely any kids were on screens. Instead, they were engaged in conversation, looking around at the world, and some were playing card games with adults. Seeing that helped our kids realize that sitting without a device and interacting with adults can be normal.

Today, people often comment on our kids’ willingness to talk with adults or how much they love reading. But that didn’t just happen. It took many trips to the library and lots of encouragement. It also took many evenings of them staring at ceilings, declaring they were bored, and sitting in restaurants watching everyone else scrolling before they finally discovered the magic of books, card games, and talking with adults.

We’re not anti-technology entirely. I can still remember the day my husband bought a car with televisions that fold up into the roof when the kids were toddlers. When he drove into the carport, the kids jumped in to excitedly look around, and my mother-in-law pulled down one of the televisions. We quickly jammed it back up like crazed lunatics, scaring her half to death. In a hushed voice my husband explained that we didn’t want the kids to know about them. We almost gave my poor mother-in-law a heart attack that day, but the kids didn’t know those televisions existed for the first year. We finally pulled them down for an eight-hour road trip to the absolute delight and astonishment of our kids. And, of course, once they knew, they wanted them every time they got in the car. So we made a rule: they could watch the screens only if the car ride was over an hour.

We also eventually bought my son a Nintendo Switch. He’d begged and begged because all his friends were playing and talking about video games at school. Eventually, we decided we were doing more harm than good because he felt alone and isolated. And if there’s such a thing as a natural-born gamer, it’s my son. He lights up when talking about games and is genuinely good at them. But navigating how much time he spends playing has been tricky, full of trial and error. There were plenty of meltdowns—especially when he was younger—when we said his hour was up. Even now, he never wants to quit. I can see that addictive pull in him, always wanting “just a little more.” We’ve talked about that energy. I’ve explained that these games are designed to train your brain so you never feel like you’ve had enough. He’s now able to recognize and name that feeling himself.

We quickly realized we can’t just say “no video games or television” without offering alternatives. Yet giving kids a play-based childhood full of running around and conversation is hard today, especially when so many other kids are locked inside on devices—and the world often feels less safe than it once did. However, the irony is not lost on me that people will give kids unlimited access to the entire internet, full of predators and dangers, yet feel terrified to let them walk a few blocks down the street.

My husband felt strongly about giving our kids real-world freedom before I was ready. When our son was eight and our daughter was six, he insisted they were old enough to walk several blocks to the grocery store together, and also to piano lessons a block away. I was nervous about their safety, even though we lived in a relatively safe neighborhood with sidewalks. The cars often drove too fast through the neighborhood and there were plenty of break-ins. My husband was unmoved with my concerns, “If we want to keep them off electronics, we have to let them have experiences in the real world.”

So we compromised. We bought them Gizmo watches—wearable devices that let them call or text us and let us track where they were. I must have walked those sidewalks with them dozens of times before their first solo run, practicing crossing streets and rehearsing scenarios like strangers offering candy. The first day they walked to the store, I paced the house until they returned. When they burst through the door, they were grinning, their chests puffed out with pride. My son couldn’t wait to tell me how two people in the store asked if they were lost, and he proudly explained, “Our parents sent us here to buy milk because we’re mature.”

From there, we gave them more freedom—a bit of money to manage, self-checkout, longer grocery lists. They loved telling anyone and everyone that they could walk to the grocery store alone.

When The Anxious Generation by

Jonathan Haidt

came out the other year, we felt so confirmed in what we were already seeing and trying to do. Haidt paints a stark divide between what he calls a “play-based childhood”—full of running around, real conversation, and exploration—and a “phone-based childhood,” where kids live in endless scrolls and likes, disconnected from real life.

Almost every choice we’ve made as parents has been about creating a life with fewer screens and more connection. Just last year, we moved neighborhoods because there were more kids outside—riding bikes, knocking on doors, roaming around looking for someone to play with. There’s now a grocery store further away in this neighborhood and they ride their bikes there together.

The Gizmo watches, while helpful for us to keep track of them, aren’t great for real conversations. They’re staticky and hard to hear. My kids wanted a better way to get in touch with their friends. So when I read an article in The Atlantic, “The Dumbest Phone is Parenting Genius,” about families rediscovering landline phones, and all the joy and connection it could bring, it immediately clicked.

I asked my daughter if she wanted a landline phone for her upcoming ninth birthday. I worried she’d say it was lame—but she was ecstatic. I think it really helped that she knew smartphones were off the table until high school. The idea of having access to any phone thrilled her. Once I knew she was excited, I called the parents of her two closest friends and explained our idea. To my delight, they both jumped on board. Other families started showing interest too. Thanks to my daughter’s persistence in lobbying every parent she sees, we’re starting a “Landline Club” of our own here in Little Rock.

To answer the question so many have asked from the Note: we went with Ooma, a VOIP service rather than a traditional landline because it’s cheaper and Ooma’s premium package claims to screen out robocalls. And so far, that has been true.

Here’s how it works: you buy a base unit and plug it into your router. You connect a corded phone to the unit. (We chose a single corded phone in the living room so the kids stay in one central place while talking—a brilliant tip from The Atlantic article.) You pay a small monthly fee. That’s it. While we don’t technically have a landline, we use the same corded phone that is made for landlines.

Choosing the service was easy. Picking the actual corded phone was not. You’d think we were negotiating a peace treaty it took so long. I wanted a phone that matched the aesthetic of our living room. My son wanted a black rotary phone. My daughter wanted pink but absolutely not black. I explained to my son, “You think you want a rotary phone until you start misdialing.” Eventually, we settled on an aqua-blue phone that looks like a vintage rotary phone, matches some pillows in the living room, and has push buttons.

Since installing the phone, there have been comedic moments, like my son trying to record the voicemail greeting with just: “We’re not here.” Click. I had to explain he needed to say who we were, invite people to leave a message, and wish them a nice day. It took about six takes. The kids also didn’t know how to use the address book their godmother gave them. I had to explain how to alphabetize names by last name instead of writing everyone on the first page with no area codes.

The shift in our household has been immediate and wonderful. My kids now call their grandmothers daily—sometimes twice a day—something I never anticipated or even asked them to do. And these calls are completely different from the calls they made on my smartphone. They’re not staring at themselves on a screen, using Animoji faces, or wandering the house distracted. Instead, they sit in the living room, focused on the voice on the other end of the line. There’s depth in these conversations and genuine listening and storytelling. It’s a depth of connection the screens and constant movement around the house seemed to prevent.

Of course, there have already been moments when the limits have been tested. The other week, while picking my daughter up from a church sleepover camp, she said, “Mom, I need your phone number. Me and my new cabin friends are going to start a group chat and play Roblox together!”

I remembered the elementary school counselor telling me last year about how much drama group chats were causing. She said bluntly, “I wish no elementary school kids had smartphones. Parents hand these little kids the keys to the universe without any guardrails and then wonder why they have problems. They can’t handle that type of responsibility.”

I gently reminded my daughter she wouldn’t be joining any group chats. Instead, her friends could call the house, and we’d plan real-life hangouts. I wrote down our home number for her new friends and handed it out. And surprisingly, the next day, the phone rang with a friend from camp on the line.

At first, the girls were awkward. At one point, my daughter accidentally hung up because she clicked the receiver down with her finger, not realizing that would end the call. She called back laughing and explained, “Sorry, I just hung up on you. I’m still figuring this phone out!” By the end of the call, they’d arranged a pool date. And the next day instead of sitting around texting or playing Roblox alone, they were laughing and splashing together in the sun.

In 2023, U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy called loneliness a public health crisis. And I believe it isn’t going away without intentionality and a real effort to increase the quality of our connections instead of the quantity. I’ve even started wondering if I need to stop texting so much. I’ve focused so much on the dangers of social media and video games, but I haven’t thought enough about how much texting keeps us from connecting. That is, until watching my kids talk on their corded phone. Texting is so quick and easy, but it robs us of voice-to-voice communication with friends and family. Perhaps I should put down my to-do lists more often and start setting aside time to pick up the phone and have actual conversations too.

The other day, I listened to my daughter chatting on her corded phone with her best friend who was on her new corded phone. They were laughing and telling stories the way I did as kid, and I felt like my husband and I were getting something right. All the pushback and swimming against the tide had been worth it—for this.

Parenting is full of second-guessing. I question nearly every decision I make. But keeping strict limits on technology and protecting my kids from the attention economy is one choice I haven’t regretted for a single second. I’ve never heard any parent say, “I wish I’d given my kid a smartphone sooner.” But I hear this constantly, “I wish I’d waited longer.”

My kids are at another week-long sleepaway camp this week. Before they left, they created calling cards on Canva with their names and phone number. We had them printed so they could hand them out at camp. It’s both adorable, practical, and makes them feel grown-up. I gave my daughter my old business card holder, and my husband gave my son one.

(I marked through their first names and numbers for privacy, but you get the idea.)

So, if you’ve been wondering whether there’s another way to keep your kids connected without handing them a smartphone, I’m here to tell you: it’s absolutely possible. There’s a way to give your children the joy of a short or long conversation with a best friend or beloved family member—and even the sweet chaos of fighting over who gets to answer the phone or who’s been talking too long. And it might just bring your family closer than you ever imagined. In fact, I bet it will.

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! And if you have found this article helpful, please consider becoming a subscriber and/or leaving a tip. Either way, I’m so glad you’re here and reading my work!