Tamagotchi Parenting and the Urge to Check In

My son is 586 miles away from home (yes, I’ve checked).

It’s been over a month since we dropped him off at college, with the dorm move-in already a bit of a blurry memory. Together with his dad and sister, we made his bed, unpacked some bins, and carefully arranged a few posters, all in hopes that his new space might feel a little bit like home after we left. We made the obligatory store run and stocked his shelves with snacks and laundry detergent (in hopes he would use it). And then, that moment came that was 18 years in the making: a goodbye with many hugs, a few tears, and that awkward moment of standing on the sidewalk a beat too long before we each finally walked in different directions.

Ever since that emotional moment, once or twice a day, I open the “Find My” app not just to see where he is, but to feel some sliver of connection. That blue dot on the map doesn’t only show me his location, it gives me a piece of a story I am longing to read more of. If he’s in the dining hall at noon, I tell myself he ate. If he’s walking around campus at night, maybe he’s hanging out with friends and thriving.

It’s like trying to read tea leaves from GPS data and I know it’s a little ridiculous. I also know I’m not alone.

Somewhere between my son’s first sleepaway camp and his sophomore year of high school, parenting quietly shifted. We went from being the people who packed the lunches to the ones who manage logistics while also casually surveilling. But unlike those old baby monitors we eventually turned off and packed away, this version of monitoring never really ends. With smartphones and popular tracking apps like Life360 always on, I can check in any time I want. And more often than I care to admit, I do.

The Tamagotchi

Source: Dall-E/OpenAI

In sharing these reflections with a friend recently, I realized how much this mirrored my childhood experience with a Tamagotchi. You might remember the little keychain pet fad from the ‘90s? You had to feed them, play with them, clean up after them, and if you didn’t, they got sick, or died. My friends and I carried them everywhere, constantly checking the screen for signs of distress and if you cared and wanted them to survive, you stayed vigilant.

Maybe that’s what’s happening now. Somewhere along the way, I correlated caring with checking. Love meant attentiveness, and attentiveness meant keeping tabs. I no longer carry a digital pet in my pocket, however, I am carrying something more complicated: my own maternal worry.

The stakes are different now that there’s no simple reset button. My role has shifted since I’m not the one in charge of feeding or fixing anymore. I’m learning to love from a distance, to care without controlling, and to trust that the foundation we built is solid enough for him to stand on without me constantly monitoring the dashboard. Yet, I keep peeking at my little blue dot in hopes that it is ok.

Psychologists refer to this as “tethered monitoring”, that quiet urge many parents feel to stay digitally close to their children. A 2023 study published in the Journal of Family Psychology found that at least 50% percent of U.S. parents of teenagers use location tracking apps (Burnell et al). While most say they’re doing it for safety reasons, researchers found that “electronic tethers” are a modern way to remain emotionally connected, even when physical distance makes that connection harder to maintain (Hofer, et al., 2009).

We don’t check because we think our kids are doing something wrong, but rather not knowing anything at all can feel worse. When they no longer need us to pack lunches, ask about homework, or drive them to practice, we still need some thread that connects us to the rhythm of their day. That tiny blue dot on the screen becomes a kind of proof-of-life, even if it’s just proof that their phone is still charged.

Checking in usually comes from a place of care, with that quick look at their location serving as a quiet way of saying, “I’m thinking of you.” Over time, though, that same glance can bring more unease than comfort. An unanswered text can suddenly grow into a chain of imagined fears, as you think, “I just saw you moving around, I know you’re there!”

I have started to ask myself what it would look like to untether. Letting go is not a single act but a daily practice that can begin as simply as closing the app. As I try to grow into this new stage of parenting, the principles of secure attachment parenting (Howard et al. 2003) resonate with me because the core idea still holds true for teens and young adults: our kids don’t need us to hover, they need to know we are reliably there. Secure attachment is not about constant closeness, rather it is about creating enough safety that they can explore, knowing we will be steady when they need us.

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While I am still learning how to de-tether (and probably always will be), I am focusing on parenting with connection rather than slipping into pseudo-Tamagotchi tracking. Here are a few ways I am practicing that shift:

1. Connection doesn’t always mean closeness. Secure attachment is not about always being physically close. It is about being emotionally available. I am learning that love often shows up as trust, and it does not have to mean checking in all the time. In many moments, offering confidence is actually the better form of care.
2. The role changes, but the relationship doesn’t have to. While I am no longer packing lunches or checking over homework assignments, what I can offer now is a steady voice when he chooses to talk and a safe place to land when he needs it. My role has shifted from managing the details of his day to simply being present in the moments that matter most. I will admit, it is not always easy to step back, but I am learning that standing alongside, ready when he reaches out, can be just as important.
3. I’d rather have a conversation than a location ping. No app can tell me if he is truly okay. The real clues still come now in quieter ways like a spontaneous text in the middle of the day or a meme that says more than words. I am learning to lean on those moments instead of chasing constant updates. That often means giving him the space to let things unfold on his timeline rather than mine, and although it is not always easy, it feels more genuine than refreshing a screen.

I won’t pretend I have mastered this. There are still moments when I open the app just to catch sight of that little dot. What I am working on is resisting the urge to zoom in, and instead reminding myself that he is capable, that he knows how to ask for help, and that our bond runs deeper than anything a screen can show. As much as I love the reassurance of that blue dot, I am trying to trust that our connection doesn’t disappear just because I’m not watching. (And son, if you happen to read this, please text me!)