Chapter 1 The Charm of a Kitchen Phone

I often find myself wishing for the days when my children could experience the joy of having a kitchen phone. Our single household phone would proudly adorn the wall across from the sink, a spot where my kids would witness me twisting its coiled cord while trying to manage dinner and fend off interruptions from Grandma’s calls.

When the kitchen phone rang during our family dinners, we all exchanged knowing glances, silently agreeing that no one should answer. It would chime several times as we passed around garlic bread, allowing the answering machine to take the call while we enjoyed our spaghetti. “Hi! You’ve reached Heather! And Jesse! And Carter! And Jack! And Us, The Twins! We can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message at the beeeeep.”

On Wednesday evenings, when my favorite show aired, I would instruct my eleven-year-old, “Tell them I’ll call back during the commercial.” Next to the phone, a notepad awaited to jot down messages, with even my five-year-old understanding how to inform callers, “Mom’s busy right now.”

Indeed, life is busy, but not so frantic that I couldn't carve out time to lounge on the kitchen counter, phone cord wrapped around my arm, savoring hot coffee while catching up on the latest gossip.

When that singular phone rang, everyone’s attention was drawn to it. Who could it be? We’d ponder over who might need us, and answering it required someone to physically walk to the kitchen wall.

While out for groceries or soccer practice, we might miss a call. If no one was home to pick up, the caller had a choice: try again later or catch up at work tomorrow. Most often, they would opt for the latter.

As my kids grew, they would linger in the kitchen, waiting for a call from friends or crushes. I often wished they had to endure the dilemma of whether to answer before their dad heard a boy’s voice or let someone else pick it up so it didn’t seem like they were waiting.

From my own experience, I’d advise them to let someone else answer. Then, they could feign not hearing their sibling call for them before counting to ten and finally answering. “Hello? Sorry for the delay. I was in the middle of something mysterious.”

I longed for my children to experience the thrill of liking someone enough to muster the courage to call, braving the labyrinth of parents and siblings just to have a conversation. I wished they would hang up, pick up again, take a deep breath, and finally get through only to be met with a busy signal.

During moments when my preschooler rambled on about a snack time story that seemed endless, my pocket wouldn’t buzz with notifications. I would focus completely on their tales of blueberry muffins and juice, relishing the time spent together.

If we had that kitchen phone, I would wonder about my brother’s recent adventures, unaware of his snowy day trip or family meal photos shared online. Instead, I would need to dial his number to catch up. And when I’d prod him about basketball sign-ups, we would both have to keep our voices in check, free to roll our eyes without detection.

Our kitchen phone wouldn’t be a portal to the internet, making shoe shopping a notable event. I would have to don my coat, drive to the store, find a parking spot, hope they had my size, and engage in a real conversation with a salesperson before returning home with my purchase.

Heaven forbid I needed to return those shoes!

Often, hanging up meant just that — a definitive end. When my child disconnected from their seventh-grade lab partner, that would be the conclusion of their communication. They wouldn’t see each other on social media six years later. Avoiding bullying on Facebook or blocking ex-girlfriends wouldn’t be issues; they might even remember the phone number of their first love without needing to delete it later.

Once someone left our lives, finding them again would require effort. We would need to seek them out. Sometimes, people simply vanished, and sometimes, we would choose to disappear as well.

With only the kitchen phone, my children would likely find themselves bored more often. However, this boredom could lead to better listening skills and more meaningful conversations. They would improve their handwriting, engage in drawing, read physical books, and even spend time talking to themselves in the backyard. They would pick a single activity and dedicate hours to it. If they wanted to learn something new, they would have to seek out someone knowledgeable and pay attention the first time.

In a world defined by just our kitchen phone, countless notifications would remain unheard, but we would sleep more soundly. There would be much we didn’t know, yet we would learn so much more. Perhaps our lives would not rush by but instead percolate, deepening with each moment.

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