In the 90s, our parents didn’t have mobile phones, and that was the jackpot of childhood. Their time was ours, not shared with strangers on glowing screens. No reels, no likes, no endless scrolling. When we spoke, they listened. When we cried, they noticed. Their thumbs weren’t chasing dopamine; they were tying our shoelaces. We were lucky, not because life was simple, but because attention was undivided.
Fast forward to today, parenting looks more like a Wi‑Fi connection: strong signal, weak presence. Mothers scroll through “gentle parenting” reels while ignoring their kids’ gentle cries. Fathers watch motivational shorts about family time while sitting alone in another room. Homes have become museums of glowing screens, where parents and children coexist like parallel downloads.
We used to fight for the TV remote; now families fight for attention. Dinner tables have turned into charging stations, and bedtime stories have been replaced by bedtime scrolling. Parents proudly post “quality time” selfies while their kids stare at the wall, wondering if affection needs a hashtag. Childhood has become a background prop in the endless pursuit of digital applause.
So yes, we were lucky. Lucky that our parents didn’t chase likes to prove love. Lucky that our childhood wasn’t interrupted by notifications. And lucky that when we said “I’m bored,” they gave us their time, not their phone. Today’s generation may have faster internet, but we had a stronger connection.
