But I prevailed. As time was ticking, I managed to build the set while editing the story and avoiding a meltdown. Working from home while taking care of a toddler isn’t easy. I have had to learn how to maximize time with my son and get my writing done. Stay-at-home moms know that every second counts.

Two weeks ago my friend from Rome, Elena, spoke to me the ominous words: “Prepare yourself. Coronavirus is in the north of Italy, it will soon be here in Rome, and in a few weeks it’ll be in the U.S.A.”

Another visitor arrived with a large group of men. He got so drunk he wandered into the wrong house—the owner had left the door unlocked—and passed out. He’s lucky he didn’t get shot for trespassing—many of my neighbors own guns.

Fourteen women once arrived to celebrate a bachelorette party. Three banged on our door several times to borrow household items, which they never returned.

The party house isn’t alone. Across the street is a second short-term rental, and there are several more within five blocks. It’s disruptive to the many families with young children who bought houses in the neighborhood looking to set down roots.

In 2016, Gov. Doug Ducey signed a law known as the Airbnb bill, which severely limits local regulation of short-term rentals. The only restrictions it allows are for safety, noise, parking and neighborhood nuisances. Even these are poorly enforced. While Scottsdale law mandates only six adults and their dependents can stay in a short-term rental, you will find all over Airbnb’s website houses boasting rooms for far greater numbers of people. Before 2016, Scottsdale prohibited rentals of fewer than 30 days in residential neighborhoods.

According to All the Rooms, a company that analyzes Airbnb data, in July 2019 there were 3,026 Airbnb rentals available in Scottsdale and the adjacent town of Paradise Valley, with a 40% occupancy rate. These rentals generated $5.3 million in revenue. How can they not be viewed as unlicensed hotels? I didn’t sign up to live next to a hotel.

In May 2019 Mr. Ducey signed another law, with a few more restrictions. Owners of short-term rentals must provide cities or towns with contact information and respond to complaints in a timely manner.

While the owner of the neighboring house has great reviews for being prompt and attentive to his guests, he is unresponsive to my concerns. He told me in one year he raked in more than $100,000 from this property. That’s quite a return, but his neighbors paid the price.

Ms. Siegel is a freelance journalist who covers international affairs, business and travel.

My stomach bottomed out. There were wild animals everywhere, but no gates, no guards, no fences protecting our tents. I’d never even camped in the U.S. This was some introduction.

“I guess you didn’t read the fine print in the catalog,” he said with a smile.

I wanted to call my mother, but so as not to panic her, I phoned my sister instead: “Audrey, I’m sleeping in a tent. And there are five lions outside, and I’m scared.”

“What? Masada, I can’t hear you. I’m in Costco right now. Can I call you back?”

I stared at my phone. I was about to be eaten by lions and she was shopping.

The next day, we were scheduled to follow an unarmed tracker on a nature hike past where we’d seen the lions the day before. My tent seemed like a safe haven by comparison, so I told the guide I’d sit this one out.

“You can’t be alone at the camp,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

Now thoroughly terrified, I reluctantly joined the hike. It was beautiful as well as scary. The tracker showed us footprints from elephants, zebras and monkeys. A young giraffe appeared and watched us as we admired her—a quiet reminder that we were guests in her world.

I finally relaxed when we took a safari ride in a truck later that day—until an elephant charged our vehicle, which chose that moment to stall. The truck started seconds later, but the guide insisted we stand our ground, revving our engine as we slowly accelerated towards the massive beast. I was sure we’d be trampled to death, but the elephant broke off its charge at the last moment. Fear-induced adrenaline heightened my senses the whole trip and let me catch every magical detail. Sometimes it’s best not to read the fine print.

Ms. Siegel is a freelance journalist who covers international affairs, business and travel.

“He was running off with us to the other side of the park.”

PHOTO: ISTOCK/GETTY IMAGES

She looked surprised and started to scold him: “You have to stay in this area and not leave.” She then returned to staring at her phone. Whatever she was reading was more compelling than her son.

I told the story to a neighbor, and she recounted a time she watched in horror a mother who was too busy on her cellphone to notice her toddler’s hand getting stuck in an elevator door.

Everywhere I turn these days, people are paying attention to their phones instead of their kids. Recently my son and I were playing basketball at our local community center. We were there for almost two hours running and throwing a ball around. A woman approached me and said: “You are a good mother.” I asked why. “I’ve been watching you play with your son while I’ve been working out, and you are really paying attention to him. The days are long, but the years fly by quickly.”

Everyone wants attention. Kids especially need it. Putting my phone away is a win-win. I’m more aware of my surroundings, and every day my son shows me new aspects of himself—stringing together sentences with new words, helping trees when their branches have fallen off (his solution is to tape them back on). These precious moments are fleeting and easy to miss.

Like most people, I’m addicted to my phone, but I do my best to stay focused on what really matters. Those moments I waste mindlessly scrolling through social-media feeds and emails can never be gotten back.

Maybe it is time we all got off our damn cellphones and focused on our children. They’re worth our attention. They don’t wait to grow up, and if you miss these moments, they’re gone forever.

Ms. Siegel is a freelance reporter who covers international affairs, business and travel.

But Germany is also where I met Saqib. While working a trade show in Frankfurt with my dad in 2011, a man walked over from a nearby booth: “I am Saqib from Syria. It’s a country in the Middle East next to Lebanon.”

PHOTO: ISTOCK/GETTY IMAGES

We knew where Syria was—my mom is Israeli—but didn’t say so. A fast friendship formed, and on the last day of the conference Saqib said, “You must come to Syria and meet my family. You would love the people, food and culture.”

I thanked him and said: “I can’t. I have an Israeli stamp in my passport.”

“So, get another passport,” he responded, smiling.

“I’m half-Israeli and Jewish. I think I would be a little nervous.”

His face turned ashen. The conversation shifted to the Palestinians and why Israel should be bombed. Frustrated, I finally said, “Look at me. Do you like me? Because if you are killing Israelis, you are saying you want to kill me, my family and my friends. Is that what you want?”

He shook his head: “Of course not.”

Over the next year, the situation in Syria deteriorated. But when dad and I arrived in Frankfurt in 2012, Saqib was there. When I went to say goodbye at week’s end, Saqib hugged me with tears in his eyes. “Please thank your father again for what he said to me today,” he told me. “You have no idea how much it meant to me.”

Later, I asked dad what Saqib meant. “I told him if he needed assistance for himself or his family to get out of Syria, in any way, to let me know, and I would help him in any capacity I could.”

I shook my head at the irony. Here was a Jewish man, whose family fled Nazi Germany, whose Israeli wife had family that were shelled by Syrian forces, offering to help a Syrian Muslim keep his family safe.

As the years went by, Saqib reached out sporadically via email. He said his factory had been destroyed, some of his workers killed, his best friend murdered by the regime. He was living in Europe starting a new business. He said he didn’t know what to tell his children, because he was beginning to despair. The world was standing by as the carnage continued.

A few months later, Saqib reported how touched he was by the support Jewish groups were giving Syrian refugees. “In fact, they have done what our fellow Arabs—mainly the Gulf States—have miserably failed to do,” he wrote. “Last week I attended a gathering organized by a local synagogue that just restored my faith in humanity.” He followed up with an article from a synagogue bulletin. A photo showed Saqib and his family at a Passover Seder.

It is encouraging to realize that interactions between Syrians and Israelis can be positive, and heartening to know that Jewish people and groups are reaching out to help in the Syrians’ time of need. Certainly, they know all too well the consequence of silence in the face of mass murder.

Ms. Siegel is a freelance reporter who covers international affairs, business and travel.