“We” meant our nanny, my two teens and a friend. My heart swooped, but just for a second: I could tell the crisis was over. Even beyond her words, the outrage in my daughter’s voice–that familiar combination of little-girl petulance and adolescent entitlement–was clear evidence that she was not only fine, but operating with all of her usual eight cylinders on full power. (It’s the same principle as how you know that the toddler who screams at 10 decibels after a fall isn’t badly hurt, but you worry about the one who whimpers softly.)

I immediately called her to get the story, but ironically her phone wasn’t turned on. So I aimed my SUV in the direction of the hospital–and then got down to the hard but necessary work of self-flagellation and guilt-wallowing. How could I have shut off my phone? How irresponsible of me to be completely out of reach! Shouldn’t I be wearing a pager, at least?

But wait just a second. I couldn’t have prevented the accident. It’s clear that in my daughter’s mind my real sin was being utterly unavailable to her. Though it was just for an hour, I–mother of four vulnerable children–was out of touch, and by implication, out of the bounds of what we consider to be responsible parenting nowadays.

And I might as well admit it, not for the first time either. Last fall when my son had his nose rearranged at soccer practice, it fell upon his coach to drive him to the hospital. The school nurse has taken me to task for not being immediately accessible, and my kids–who live in a world where instant gratification has become the norm–complain about my intermittent unreachability. To which I say, hey, deal with it.

I’m not cavalier about my mothering responsibilities, nor phobic about technology. I’m an involved parent and have excellent child care. I co-preside over a high-tech, nine-number household (that’s four land lines and five cellular numbers). I could easily fill the hard drive of one of my older computers with reasons why I am grateful to have a cell phone. And though I initially pooh-poohed them as electronic status symbols, I’m now convinced teens should have them, too. In my household we can and do check in with one another regularly, providing up-to-the-second updates or at least voice-mail messages on location, ETA, safety (“Yes, Mom, her parents are here”) and so on.

These convenient devices have raised the standard for parental vigilance to a stratospheric new high. We modern moms and dads are not only expected to make sure our kids are perfectly nourished, endlessly enriched and absolutely safe at all times; we’re also supposed to be instantly reachable and immediately responsive every moment of the day and night.

So we are. When we are in line at the supermarket, we referee sibling squabbles via satellite. We interrupt meetings to take calls from hungry kids who need to know, can we pick up a pizza on the way home? As we walk down city streets, ride the train, break bread with friends, our phones trill–and we answer them, and patiently answer whatever questions we get. Yes, you can go to Aaron’s. No, you cannot have a Yodel now.

You’ve heard the calls. I’ve heard the calls. I’ve taken them, too–which is one reason that my phone isn’t on all the time.

But there’s another reason, too. I believe we well-meaning parents need to get comfortable with the fact that we cannot and should not orchestrate every moment in our children’s lives for them. Partly because the effort turns out to be futile, but more importantly because it prevents our kids from learning life skills they need to succeed in the real world. There are times they need to ad lib. There are times they need to wait. There are even times they need to turn to someone else–another family member, a teacher, a neighbor–and ask for help.

Of course I want to be there for my children when something goes wrong–and what I really want is for nothing painful or bad or scary to ever happen to them. But those things will occur in their lives, and in fact, plenty of them already have. Sometimes with me right there in the room, and other times when I am nowhere to be found.

And those few times, they’ve done beautifully. They ask for assistance if they need it, or find a way to solve the problem on their own. Knowing, always, that very soon I’ll be home–or will turn on my phone–so I can hear all about it.