I sat at my desk and glanced around the room that was used both as my office and the kids’ play room. In one corner I’d put Lego blocks. The other corner had a kitchen play area, set up to “make breakfast” just like my kids liked. On a miniature table I had laid out crayons and color books. A children’s CD of Scripture songs played in the background.
There, I thought. The kids are fed, dressed, and all their toys are laid out. Maybe I can have some time for me—time to get something done.
I turned on my computer and waited for it to boot up. {This was 1995; computers took time to boot up back then!} My five-year-old son, Cory, quickly occupied himself with the blocks. My daughter, Leslie, nearly three years old, moved to the coloring books. Nathan, 1, danced to the songs for a minute, and then his attention turned to the table as Leslie spread out the crayons she wanted to use.
With a toss of her curly hair, Leslie found a blank page and set to work with a red crayon. She leaned so close to the page her nose nearly touched the paper as she concentrated on staying inside the lines.
Nathan hurried over, curious at what held his sister’s attention.
“Wat dat?” he asked, pointing.
Leslie ignored him.
“I see it.” He tugged at the book, attempting to get a glimpse of its cover.
Leslie’s free hand pinned the book. She shook her head. “No, no.”
Not ready to give up, Nathan picked up a crayon. “I try.”
My computer finished loading, and I opened the document to a parenting article I was working on for a magazine. I’d just started to read through it when Leslie’s loud voice overpowered Nathan’s pleading.
“Nathan, no!” She stood and placed a hand on her hip. “Stop that, you’re contracting me!”
At first I had to laugh. Leslie had talked before she could walk, and even though she wasn’t yet three, she always tried to use words twice her size.
“It’s distracting, Leslie, not contracting,” I corrected.
“Nathan, please,” she said again. “You’re distracting me.”
This time her voice didn’t sound like a three-year-old. Her tone was different. I looked at her hand on hip and a realization struck me. Her tone was mine.
How many times did I say the same thing? As I worked on the computer or talked on the phone, “Kids, please . . . you’re distracting me.”
The realization hit. Leslie had been picking up more than a good vocabulary lately. Seeing my frustration reflected in her pint-size frame was a wake up call. Did I see my kids as a distraction?
Yes, I did a lot to take care of my kids. They ate the right things, played with the right toys, and pretty much got along. But was my leave-me-alone attitude being passed on when I wasn’t paying attention <click to tweet>?
With a sigh, I pushed back from my desk. The article could wait.
“Leslie,” I said, joining her at the table. “Let’s all color together. Family isn’t a distraction . . . it’s a gift.”
“OK, Mommy.” She ripped two pages from her book. “One for you. One for Nathan.” Then her voice rose again. “Co-wee,” she called to her older brother, “you want to color, too?”
And as we sat down to color I refocused my attention to my kids for that moment . . . and what really matters.
