As a father to a pair of vibrant, young children, it’s not often I’m around them that they’re not asking for my attention. In fact, as long as they’re outside of alpha state sleep, they are guaranteed to have a request or proposition for me of some sort. Even if they’re not asking it this second, they’re working on something. A demand…is coming.

You know how when you drive a brand-new car off the lot, its value automatically decreases from 100% to 80% (Yeah, I’m making those numbers up)? My joke is, when the kids walk through my front door as I’m finishing up a day of work, even if my energy level’s at 100% at 4:59 p.m. (which is never), their mere, exuberant act of crossing the threshold into the house at 5:00 p.m. — therefore co-occupying my general vicinity — automatically zaps me down to, like, 70%.

 
It’s interesting that, even when I miss them and they’re back in my physical space, I have these moments when I quickly and urgently want to escape them. Kids are a lot. Especially in plural form. And if you’re raising them by yourself, you know that it’s especially taxing when Kid ‘A’ wants to hunt for toads and/or play football, while Kid ‘B’ is imploring me to help put the underwear back on her doll. Again. (Rhetorical question(s): Why does she keep taking them off in the first place?? Why the underwear and not shoes or sun dress? And why do doll-makers build the bodies in a way where the clothier must contort legs and feet in super-awkward Cirque du Soliel positions in order to put on the underwear…while his daughter’s watching?)

So, typically, when I come down with a (perfectly human) urge to withdraw for a bit of fresh air, I acknowledge a few options:

A) Stay in the mix and engage with the kids.

B) Stay in the mix and disengage with the kids.

C) Slip away for a period of time into another part of the house/property.

It probably goes without saying that Option ‘A’ is the best. The hardest…still, the best. There’s some “take up your cross” involved, but beyond even that, the time, the attention, the patient (I Cor. 13:4) EYE CONTACT — I’ll get to that more in a minute — is the best tangible measure of my love for them.

One thing…alright, two things…I’m sure of as a parent of young children: They’re never going to say this: “We’re all good over here, Dad (or Mom). Relax. Go check your email. Make some coffee and catch up on that list of Netflix documentaries.” And also, Parents need breaks. Which is why Option ‘C’ is OK. To be sure, kids can stand to play on their own — and also straight-up deal with their boredom — for a time period. Though, I’ll admit, it’s a fine line between taking a 10-minute break and a 180-minute break, sometimes. Time away from “parental mode” can be a slippery slope that can easily become more about laziness than about recharging. If you’re a stay-at-home mom and the kids are taking care of themselves for 3 hours, that’s awesome. But as a single dad who spends only every-other-day with my son and daughter, three hours is a huge chunk of valuable time that’s lost if I’m simply getting away because I don’t feel like being present.
What’s decidedly not OK is Option ‘B’. I see this played out by parents, constantly. And I do it often, myself. It’s a borderline classic situation for most parents my age. You know, when the Boy wants to show us his ninja trick in the backyard with his bow-staff (a stick) and karate headband. He assumes his position, waits for eye contact that confirms his audience’s attention and commences a series of flips, kicks and twirls across the lawn. It’s a ten-second performance, but what happens to us during that time? Our hand finds our pocket, which happens to be housing our phone, which serves as a portal into the “lives” of hundreds of different people’s current activities on display via social media outlets. And by the time the routine is wrapped and the ninja warrior composes himself for his reward (applause and encouragement), we’re locked into a screen, absorbing the activities of others. People doing cool, exemplary things like: Taking a walk. Eating. Watching their baby lay there. Photographing their just-not-attractive feet on a beach.

People who don’t matter to us nearly as much as the child ten feet away. But occupy our attention anyway.
I describe this somewhat hypothetically, but it’s an act I’ve been guilty of, way more than twice. There have been moments during legit playtime when I decided it was more important to respond to an email than ANYTHING ELSE. My kids–holding me to my end of the bargain that we are playing–will literally hang on my arms for my attention as I determinedly knock out a work email. Do I know that there are a couple of 45 pound children hanging on me? Of course. Do I realize that we are in unspoken agreement that this is our time to interact and play together? For sure. Do I care at the moment? Not enough to not do what I want to do. And what I want to do is write out this email that could most definitely wait until the next morning.

Yet, wow, does it make my heart hurt when I’m at the playground and see a dad absentmindedly swinging his child on the swing with his head bent down and eyes fixed on a screen. Or when a little girl is spinning round and round, making her dress twirl, glancing her father’s way to see if he’s watching her. And he isn’t.

There have been some sobering moments as a parent when I was verbally telling my son “We ARE playing!” while he’s watching me scroll and type on my phone. He looks at me, he looks at my phone and something in his eyes communicates with resignation that, if it’s a battle between him and my phone for my attention, he’s never going to win. I’m telling him we’re playing, but my actions are screaming way louder than my words.
To my knowledge, there haven’t been any studies yet on “Parents with smartphones and the direct affect on children therein,” but if/when such information is researched, I’m kind of afraid to know the results. I suspect it’ll be documented evidence of children who grew up experiencing loads of abandonment and neglect, but also witnessing an unhealthy dependency between their parents and an inanimate object that somewhat literally controlled their lives. And that’s only scratching the surface of the passing down of self-centeredness (“Look what I’m/we’re doing! Look at me! Listen to me! Be jealous of me!”) and performance-oriented-ness (“Do something cute! Be impressive to my social media followers!”).

So, my resolve? Take Facebook off my phone. Take Twitter off my phone. Take Instagram off my phone. It took 10 seconds to take care of a big problem — deleting the apps. If I want them back later, when the kids are away, it takes 30 seconds to reload them. It’s been over six months since I’ve had Facebook or Twitter apps on my phone at all. Do I still check my phone out of pure habit, even if there’s nothing to check? Yes. Do I still reload Instagram sometimes, even if the kids are around? Sometimes. But sometimes, the simple steps necessary to reload the apps give me enough time to pause and question if this is really the best decision at the moment.

My other resolve? Look them in the eye. They’re not always going to want my attention. In fact, soon enough, they’re going to only want me to leave them alone. So, from start to finish, I’m going to make sure my kids know I’m watching them. I’m going to look them in the eyes at the beginning and I’m going to look them in the eyes at the end. I’m going to literally get on their level and assure them that I’m watching. That I care. That they are, without a doubt, the champions of my attention.

This is not laborious. But it isn’t exactly natural, either. How often do we spend lots of time with the people closest to us and never really look them in the eye? Even with people we share living space with? I can only imagine the sense of satisfaction my son and daughter feel when I watch them dance; when I actively listen to their joke or story–from start to end; when I thoroughly admire their chalk drawings on the driveway.

And, for real–these simple parenting decisions make a difference. I see it in their disposition. In the way they want to crawl in my lap. To be closer. Not because they want my attention, but because they love me. Because they experience my love (attention) toward them. Again, it isn’t always that way and it won’t always be this way as they grow older. But I notice it now and I’m learning to cherish those moments when I see elements of a grateful heart in my children. Simply because I put everything else away and made them my priority. Hopefully, it’s training them to relate to others–including their own children–the same way (Prov. 22:6).

I’ve never stepped away from time on social media and thought, “I’m so glad I spent that time on Facebook.” But those intentional moments when I’m 100% in with my kids? That’s gold.