Listen

Listen to me. Are you listening? Did you hear me? What did I say?

I can’t count how many times a week I say this to one of my kids. On some days I say it to all three of them. It is exhausting, really. It feels like I am talking to thin air sometimes.

Put on your shoes.

Find your shoes.

I’m leaving in 2 minutes, please put some shoes on.

What?

Your jacket?

 I don’t know, I didn’t wear it.

Are your shoes on?

I’m leaving in a minute, seriously.

Leave the cat alone. It’s time to go.

Did you find your shoes?

We’re leaving.

Did you hear me?

I’m leaving.

Now.

Shoes.

Find them.

And nine times out of 10, I am walking out the door when I realize he/she is still barefoot.

It’s a small thing, perhaps, but enough to make me crazy. I often lament to my friends on how much I talk and seem to be ignored completely. They don’t hear me call their names when it’s time to come in. They don’t hear me ask them to get their jammies on. They don’t hear me say that no, you really can’t have any more snacks before bed tonight. They don’t hear me tell them to clean up their rooms. They don’t hear me ask them to put boots on before they collect the eggs in the chicken coop.

I question my parenting abilities on a daily basis. If they can’t follow a simple direction like “put on your shoes,” how in the world are they going to navigate the hard parts of life?

And just when I am convinced that they hear nothing, they absorb nothing, and I officially suck at parenting, I overhear a conversation that stops me cold.

I was in the kitchen making supper, and I could hear the girls in the backyard talking. I couldn’t make out their words, but the tone was pleasant. I decided I wouldn’t check on them, since I was in the middle of a complicated recipe, and they didn’t appear to be killing each other yet.

Before long, I could hear Emma shouting “Mom, Mom! Come here quick!” I bolted outside, convinced that there was some disaster in the making, and privately berating myself for trusting the quiet a little too much. I rounded the corner of the house to see Carys riding her bike (no training wheels!) and pedaling her little heart out. She was laughing out loud with that incredulous giggle, like even she could not believe what she was doing. Meanwhile, Emma was jumping up and down and cheering from the sidelines.

I was overcome. This was a long time coming for my middle one…she has always been more timid, more careful, more cautious, than her older sister. When she finally stopped and I was able to scoop her up into a hug, she exclaimed, “Emma teached me, Mom!”

That alone, was a proud moment, knowing my oldest took the time to pass on some knowledge. Then Emma decided to start her up again. As Emma held the seat, she was quietly murmuring instructions. I heard her say, “Okay, get the pedal up to the top. Good job. Now put one foot on the pedal, sis. I’ll hold the seat til’ you get goin’. Don’t worry, I got you! Pedal hard, remember. You can do it!”

I can still hear Aaron using the same words when he taught Emma to ride. Once Carys got going again, Emma threw her arms up in the air and yelled, “Whoo Hoo!” She came over to me and said, “I’m so proud of her, Mom!”

I was feeling the same thing. About both of them, actually. She’s listening. They’re listening. Maybe not to the day-to-day boring parts of life, but at least some of the time, our words are getting in there.

I just hope I can remember that, the next time I stub my toe on the kitchen table leg and have to answer the question, "Mom? What does that word mean?"