Get the F*** Out!

In 1998, I worked at my small hometown bar. Being sober at 2 a.m. while trying to herd drunken human cattle back to their respective farms wasn’t much fun. "G.T.F.O!," the bar owner would bark before bringing out the cattle prong. "Get. The. Fuck. Out!"

Twenty five years later, much like drunken cattle at last call, children and adults alike are glued to our devices — in our hands, on our wrists and for some, even reflected in our eyewear. We are chasing the next notification and the next algorithmically delivered morsel of attention. We doomscroll, swipe and refresh just to wait for tiny hits of validation.

Last fall, when conflict between my pre-teen boys and their friends started to obsessively revolve around online games including blocking, deleting and parents texting each other to mediate digital drama, I hit my limit. So I deleted Roblox off our family iPad at the height of Steal A Brainrot madness and immediately became Public Enemy No. 1.

I am a single mama and wasn’t going to let a video game win. Other parents in my community applauded my efforts as their kids fired off death stares from across the local park. Frankly, I was happy to take the hit.

Growing up in the '80s and '90s, of course we gamed (countless hours were spent playing Wonder Boy on that original 8-bit Sega Master System), but we also ran up and down the street ringing doorbells to invite our friends out to play. We would often disappear until sun-down. Were all decisions good? Absolutely not. Were lessons taught? Absolutely. We learned through experience, consequence, embarrassment and the occasional well-deserved grounding.

How do we G.T.F.O! in a way that feels natural? For my family, the answer arrives daily with four legs and a leash. Our 16-year-old dog doesn't care about excuses. I also try to lead by example by jumping into pickup games, volunteering to coach and learning how to skate even if my technique is embarrassingly more Bambi than Thumper. I'm not a soccer player — not even close. But as a coach for my son’s team this season, I want to help build players who participate with class.

These days, instead of stealing digital gems, our doorbell rings with invitations to go steal bases at the sandlot. It's loud, messy and gloriously fun. Without asking, my kids are smearing dirt on their shirts, I’m doing a ton more laundry and no longer being ignored at the park (yeah, they all got over it).