Sing-a-ma-jig

What I'm saying isn't getting through. As I hurry around the house, doing five things at once, my spewed instruction is received like sign language in a house for the blind, resulting in a louder rendition of the same mute message. Over. And over. And over.

And sometimes it's not just my mouth, but my ears. You, sweet one, will appear at my feet with a life-changing concern and I have no idea what you want. I hear your words perfectly articulated- they just aren't registering. If I could only understand, I'd do it in a second. Your so worked up and I can't even make out what the problem is. We're like a couple of sing-a-ma-jigs in a presidential debate.

Why am I like this? How did I get here? Here's how: there's a feast on my floorboard, and my steering wheel is sticky. I just finished a slobbered candy-cane and slighted the drive through Starbucks man (1.37 to be exact). I'd call my sister to complain, but there's a land-line in my purse.

A heap of hullabaloo intoxicates my brain, and in that mess, my perspective gets lost. My head begins to bobble. I forget the one or two important things I want to achieve today. I forget to respect those little goals, those little people. I wish I'd found a profound answer, something deep and insightful that grabs at your soul. But it's only more of the same.

We all just want to be heard.

I don't have a twelve point plan. It's just one step, or squat really. It's one of my most powerful parenting improvements yet. If I want to be heard, or to understand, I look at you, not just from across the house while I load the dishwasher, but I kneel down and look at your beautiful blue eyes.

Turns out, we're both speaking English.