Chapter 25 - I stop checking the camera
The backyard camera remained.
For almost two years, I checked it constantly.
At work.
At restaurants.
At red lights once until I caught myself.
Noah playing.
Julia visiting.
New babysitter.
Empty patio.
I told myself:
Safety.
My therapist called it:
Compulsion.
I hated that.
“What if something happens again?”
“Then your goal is a system likely to detect and respond, not omniscience.”
“Easy to say.”
“Yes.”
We redesigned childcare.
Professional sitter two afternoons.
After-school program three days once Noah entered kindergarten.
Julia occasionally.
My parents? My father lived in Arizona, mother deceased. No need.
No single caregiver had total coverage.
All knew discipline rules.
No confinement.
No corporal punishment.
No secret-keeping around safety.
If Noah said:
“Don’t tell Dad,”
the adult differentiated privacy from danger.
I reduced camera checking.
First:
Three times a day.
Then once.
Then only alerts.
One afternoon I realized I had gone from breakfast until dinner without opening the app.
I felt guilty.
Then relieved.
Noah came home muddy.
“Why?”
“Soccer.”
May you like
Normal.
Mud was allowed to return to being mud.
