Mitchell’s Malarkey

MITCHELL’S MALARKEY By: T. Mitchell Panter

Lewis Thomason, P.C.

BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU

“7:47 a.m.: Maxine was wet and had a normal BM in her diaper.” “11:47 a.m.: Maxine started a nap at 11:43.” “2:24 p.m.: Maxine ate all of her snack.” Each of these is a real-life notification that my 15-month-old daughter’s daycare has sent to my cellphone through an app it uses to log her daily activities, called “SproutAbout.”

Before I became a father, it’s safe to say that my day was free of these types of notifications, and the idea of caring about another person’s daily bowel movements was unfathomable. In fact, aside from the infrequently used MyFitnessPal, which tracks input only, none of the eight million applications on my iPhone before Maxine’s birth was designed to track the phases of digestion for me or anyone else, and the only push notifications I received in those days were from ESPN, Apple News, and our Ring doorbell.

Since Maxine’s arrival, however, these real-time updates about her most basic activities dominate my home screen and are routinely met with strong emotions. My wife and I have literally cheered at the report of a bowel movement and spiraled out of control when we receive a notification that Maxine has napped for only 30 minutes in a 10-hour day at daycare, despite waking up at 5:00 a.m.

My personal investment in Maxine’s intake and output leads me to regularly say things like, “Man, that was an awesome pee diaper!” You may think it’s sad, and it is, but I am beaming with pride each time Maxine sets a new personal record.

In addition to the push notifications, daycare also provides a livestream of Maxine’s classroom. There are multiple cameras, so we can see what she’s doing at any point by simply logging into the app. When I tell people with older children about the livestream, they’re fascinated and inevitably say that when their kids were in daycare, no such technology existed. In true “we-walked-to school-in-the-snow-and-uphill-bothways fashion,” these parents lament of the days of old when their children were left with ogres and bridge trolls, fed slop, contracted polio, were routinely frostbitten, and released from their cages at pickup only to be driven home in cars with no car seat and a gas tank at the rear of the vehicle, waiting to explode.

As with most things that begin with “Back in my day,” I don’t seem to recall any of that trauma, having been in daycare myself in the late eighties and early nineties, well before the days of livestream. That’s true even though I was in an unregulated environment. My daycare teacher, Mrs. Barbara, ran the daycare out of her basement. We watched Eureka’s Castle, Sesame Street, and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood and played on the make-shift playground in her backyard, which rested on the side of a steep hill and had playground equipment manufactured principally of glass shards and asbestos. The closest thing to torture that I can remember was being forced to eat peas at every meal, breakfast included. All things considered, life at Mrs. Barbara’s wasn’t so bad.

In retrospect, it’s for the best that my parents had no idea what we were doing during the day at Mrs. Barbara’s. Maxine, in contrast, is watched like a hawk. My wife and I routinely text one another throughout the day to alert the other to something cute or, less often, to share something alarming.

Just the other day, for example, I watched Maxine approach another child who had been hoarding toys. Maxine laid her eyes on a Magna Doodle in the other child’s cache of toys, and as Maxine reached for the Magna Doodle, the other child grabbed the other side and tried to pull it from Maxine’s hands. My child, whose frame resembles that of her father, is no delicate flower. Maxine grabbed the Magna Doodle’s pen, which is attached to the drawing board by a string, and dragged the other child two or three feet until one of the teachers saw what was happening and intervened. I must admit that I briefly celebrated the fact that my child “ain’t no punk,” but once that dust settled, and it settled quickly, I was overwhelmed with embarrassment and concern. The truth is, these are normal childhood interactions, and my child is not destined for reality TV. Babies are pure id—impulsive, illogical, and emotional. They hoard toys, throw fits, and react disproportionately when something they want is denied or inaccessible. Absent the proliferation of technology, I would live as my parents did: blissfully ignorant to what occurred outside their presence. Maxine isn’t so lucky—at least while she’s in daycare.