I Watched You Be Fully There Today
It was one of those ordinary moments—you sitting cross-legged with our little one, completely lost in their world of blocks and dinosaur roars. That phone buzzing on the counter? The emails waiting? The whole spinning world? None of it pulled you away. You were just… there. It took my breath away, how something so simple felt like pure magic.
The Weight of the Constant Pull
Watching you these days, I think about how everything tugs at us—those glowing screens demanding replies, the mound of laundry by the dryer, the sudden requests for twisted dinosaur facts right when work needs finishing. Yet I notice how you do that thing where your whole body shifts when one of them speaks. ‘Show me,’ you’ll say, kneeling down to their level. ‘Tell me why this green block can’t live next to the red one.’
It’s not just hearing; it’s presence that leaves no room for half-listening. There’s strength in that choice, you know? The world wants bits of us scattered everywhere, but you keep gathering yourself—every part—and placing that attention where it matters most.
A Rebellion Against Shallow Living
Our phones keep showing us lives moving at hyperspeed—endless scrolls, bursts of content made for quick likes. But real connection? Parenting well? They need the opposite. Takes more courage to stand still and be interested in mismatched socks or cardboard box castles than anything trending online. It reminds me of something I read about how attention spans are shifting—we’re all feeling that pull toward the quick and shallow.
I watched you resist all that noise yesterday—putting your device facedown during snack time, silencing notifications when the little voice said, ‘Watch me jump like a T-Rex!’ You made eye contact and smiled instead of nodding while typing. Made them feel seen. Those micro-choices add up to something radical—this quiet rebellion of really seeing each other.
The Moment That Lingered
Remember last Tuesday? You’d had one of those ‘can’t-adult-today’ mornings—shredded documents, spilled coffee, the works. Yet come bedtime, there you sat—patient as spring rain—listening to that elaborate dream-vs.-reality dragon theory they’d brewed up. No hurry. No stolen glances at the clock or your inbox. Just your full curiosity meeting theirs.
That’s when it hit me: presence is a form of protection. You were building a fortress around that moment—saying with your quiet attention, ‘You’re safe here. You matter here.’
Our children will remember those walls more than any toy or trip. That’s the legacy you poured, minute by careful minute.
The Gift We Keep Giving Each Other
This isn’t just about parenting though, is it? Long before toddlers ruled our house, we knew this secret—how empty rooms felt full when we really listened to each other’s hopes and hurts. That golden era before alerts and feeds demanding fragments of our focus. It’s like how we blend kimchi into our weekend pancakes—unexpected but perfectly us.
Now when I catch your eye across the kitchen—after the last bedtime story, dishes piled high—and you ask about my day really meaning it? That’s home. That’s the slow-motion poetry we’re fighting for. Putting devices in drawers after dark, taking walks without checking likes—even five minutes of undivided presence—it all whispers, ‘You still come first.’
Where Strength Lives Now
So here’s what your presence taught me this week: resilience isn’t just pushing through hard seasons. It’s choosing—again and again—to be soft in moments that beg for hurry. To leave space for curiosity instead of calloused answers.
When you model this for our family, you’re planting quiet defiance. Against the rush. Against the noise. Against any force that tries to fracture our focus. Turns out the strongest thing isn’t speed or multitasking—it’s attention given freely, like the gift of breath itself.
Maybe that’s why I tuck these moments deep—watching you watch them with whole-hearted presence. Because in seeing you choose this radical way of loving, I remember how to live.