Where’s a 6-Year-Old When You Need One?

I have reached the stage of life where I can remodel a room, install flooring, raise livestock, stitch up minor injuries, drive a tractor, cook from scratch, play the piano in church, and write a book. But apparently I now require the assistance of a first grader to operate modern technology.

I’m not against technology. I enjoy my Windows laptop and my Android phone. I even recently purchased a robo vacuum because, between my back and my ankle, pushing a regular vacuum around the house had become less “housekeeping” and more “where's my heating pad?” As I told a friend recently, yes, it’s difficult slowing down physically, but at least my floors are clean. She laughed after a slight delay. My best comments usually require a few seconds for processing.

What I don’t enjoy is technology that requires seventeen hidden steps, three passwords, an app, an update, and a blood sample just to perform a simple task. I remember our first home computer—a Texas Instruments TI-99/4. It was small, clunky, and had less computing power than today’s microwave ovens. I sat there carefully reading the instruction manual, terrified I would hit the wrong button and somehow blow up the machine. Meanwhile, my thirteen-year-old son wandered over, casually pushed a button, and instantly made the contraption do exactly what I’d been trying to accomplish for the last twenty minutes.

“Mom,” he said, with the confidence only teenage boys possess, “just start pushing buttons and something will work.”

This approach horrified me. I came from the generation that believed buttons should not be pushed casually. Buttons existed for a reason. Pushing the wrong one could launch missiles, erase bank accounts, or possibly summon government officials. At the very least, I was certain smoke would start pouring out of the back of the computer while expensive repair bills floated gently down from the ceiling. Apparently children are born without this fear.

Take Apple products, for example. My husband owns an iPad and spends a surprising amount of time saying things like, “Why can’t I do this?” while poking the screen with increasing irritation. Meanwhile I’m sitting beside him on my laptop casually dragging files around like a civilized human being. Apparently with Apple, there is always A Way. Unfortunately, that way is usually hidden behind a tiny symbol in the upper corner that only becomes visible during a full moon or after chanting softly near the charging cable.

Recently I was trying to set up my author profile on BookBub, an online site where readers discover and follow authors and books. This sounded simple enough. Upload a photo. Add a biography. Link the book. Done. Except then BookBub wanted links from places like Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Google Play Books and Apple Books. Amazon and B&N worked perfectly, the others did not. 

Suddenly I found myself wandering through the dark underbelly of modern publishing distribution systems. Google Books informed me my book might exist but perhaps not in the correct dimension. Apple offered me a lovely preview page where apparently I could admire my own book but not actually purchase it unless I entered the Sacred Apple Ecosystem through an approved ceremonial pathway. At one point I found myself muttering, “WHY DOESN’T IT WORK?” loudly enough to alarm the dog.

This is exactly why I hired Palmetto Publishing to handle formatting and distribution. I’m a writer, not a publishing infrastructure technician. As Bones from Star Trek used to say, “Damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not a bricklayer.” In my case it becomes, “Damn it, Jim, I’m a storyteller, not an EPUB engineer.”

People assume older folks struggle with technology because we can’t understand it. That’s not necessarily true. Most of us could figure it out eventually if we absolutely had to. The real issue is that we come from an era where tools were expected to cooperate. You picked up a hammer and hammered something. You picked up a drill and drilled something. You sat down at a piano and pressed a key and music happened immediately. A violin may create beautiful music, but first you have to spend half your remaining lifespan fiddling with strings and tuning pegs before the thing stops sounding like a distressed goose. That's why I play piano and not violin.

Now every device requires an account, a verification code, synchronization, permissions, updates, and a tutorial narrated by a cheerful twenty-three-year-old who says things like, “It’s super easy!” No. No it is not.

This is why every family now needs at least one technologically gifted child under the age of seven. Somewhere there is a first grader who can solve in ten seconds the problem that has caused three adults to lose their tempers and consider throwing electronics out the window. The child walks over, sighs heavily, presses two invisible buttons, and says, “There.” Meanwhile, the adults stare in humbled silence, realizing that the future no longer belongs to us.

Still, I suppose every generation eventually reaches this point. Someday those same children will be old too, muttering at holograms and asking their grandchildren why the toaster now requires facial recognition. And somewhere, hopefully nearby, there will be another six-year-old ready to save the day.

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