There’s a hole in my iPhone

Can you spot it?

I deleted my Facebook app yesterday and verily, it was like chipping a hole from my heart. Oh ok, it wasn’t. But I had to do it: every now and again I get to a stage where I can’t not check it. The habit of flicking in and out of it becomes so ingrained in my fingers that I do it without thinking. I don’t even like it much, but I’ve felt twitchily bereft since I got rid of it. What if there are notifications I’m not picking up? What do I do with myself while baby feeding? I’ve been like a crack addict in a nunnery, and this disturbs me. Oh Facebook, I wish I could quit you. Thank goodness I’ve still got Instagram.

I dislike being tied to anything inanimate, particularly something that involves so many details of other people’s bodily functions, so when I get to this point I go on a week-long Facebook fast. Like a detox, only with fewer vegetables. But also fewer Farmville invites, so there’s a win. (I know you’re probably reading this from a Facebook link; those are generated automatically, honest.)

I read a fascinating blog post the other day about how we learn to crave electronic information. Our brains create new pathways to process the flood of notifications and updates, and if those pathways are frequently used, we begin to want more and more of the same. I thought it might be good for me to clear a bit of space in my head for a week. I feel terribly hair-shirted and virtuous. Even though I’ve still got Instagram.

In other news (!):

This is as far as he’s willing to go to get a toy he can’t reach. Bottom in the air, face pressed dramatically into the blanket. O Mother, I am fortune’s fool. Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars! Etc.

But one day, sort-of soon, it might be a crawl.

Yeah, keep hoping.

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