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| The silence wasn't peace; it was him learning to build a world without me. |
I was on my phone. Scrolling. Something unimportant. A notification. A message. A video I do not even remember now. My son was tugging at my sleeve, softly at first. Then harder.
“Papa. Papa. Kijk eens.” (Dad. Dad. Look.)
Look.
I did not look up. “Eén minuutje, beta.” (One minute, son.)
He waited. I kept scrolling. He tugged again, but weaker this time.
“Papa. Nu.” (Dad. Now.)
“Ik zei één minuutje.” (I said one minute.)
He let go of my sleeve. He walked away. He did not cry. He did not shout. He just… stopped asking.
I did not notice at first. I finished whatever I was doing on my phone. I put it down and called his name. He did not answer. I found him in his room, sitting on the floor, playing alone with his blocks. Quiet. Too quiet.
And something inside me sinks.
When He Used to Pull My Sleeve
I try to remember the last time he really insisted. The last time he refused to take “later” for an answer.
It was maybe two months ago. He had drawn something - a family, four stick figures, a yellow sun. He came to me while I was on my phone.
“Papa! Kijk!” (Dad! Look!)
I said, “Eén minuutje, beta.”
He didn't walk away then. He waited. I kept scrolling. He tugged harder, almost pulling me off the sofa.
“Papa! Nu!”
I was sharp. I was impatient. “Ik zei één minuutje!”
Back then, he still had hope. He still believed that if he pulled hard enough, I would eventually look. He thought my attention was something he could win if he just tried harder.
But today, he didn't pull hard. He didn't insist. He just let go.
I thought he was being "good." I thought he was finally becoming patient and understanding.
I was wrong.
He was learning.
Independence or Resignation?
Children do not complain forever. They adapt. They watch. They learn what works and what does not. And they learn very quickly that when Papa is on his phone, he is not available.
So they stop asking.
Not because they no longer need us. Because they have learned that needing us does not work.
I used to think he was becoming more independent. More mature. Able to play alone for longer stretches. I told myself it was good for him.
But now I wonder: did he become independent? Or did he just give up?
He didn’t get quieter. He just stopped expecting me to respond.
Knowing the World, Ignoring the Room
I think about all the times he tried to tell me something, and I nodded without looking up. All the times he asked a question, and I gave half an answer while scrolling. All the times he sat beside me, waiting, while my attention belonged to strangers on a screen.
I knew the news of a dozen countries. I knew the opinions of strangers. I knew everything happening ten thousand miles away, but I was blind to the boy sitting two feet from my knees.
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| A window into a thousand worlds, yet it made me blind to the one standing right beside me. |
But I did not know that my son had stopped calling me. I did not notice when the silence began.
Because I was too busy. Too distracted. Too full of things that do not matter.
My father never had a phone. He worked from dawn to dark. He was tired. He had no money, no help, no modern conveniences. But when I called him, he looked at me. When I pulled his sleeve, he stopped. There was no screen between us. Just his eyes, looking at his son.
He never said “later.” He just turned. He just listened. He just was there.
Now I am the father. And I have everything my father never had. And I am giving my son less of what matters most.
The Second Type of Silence
I taught him to tie his shoes. To say “dank u wel” (thank you). To brush his teeth. To be kind.
I did not teach him to play alone. He taught himself. Because I was not there.
There is a difference between a child who plays alone because he is exploring his imagination, and a child who plays alone because he has learned that no one will join him.
My son is the second one. And it breaks my heart.
The Neutral Face
Yesterday, I finished something on my phone. I put it down. I called his name.
“Beta, kom eens.” (Come here.)
He did not come. Not right away. He finished placing his block. Then he walked over, slowly, without urgency.
“Wat is er, Papa?” (What is it, Dad?)
Not excited. Not curious. Just… neutral.
I had no answer. I just wanted to see if he would come. He came. But he came like someone who no longer expects anything from me.
That is worse than not coming.
The Bricks of Silence
I thought “later” was harmless. A small word. A small delay. I thought “one minute” was nothing. I thought he would wait. I thought he would always be there, ready to show me his tower, his drawing, his joy.
I did not know that each “later” was a small crack. And cracks add up. And one day, the wall is still standing, but no one knocks anymore.
The small moments mattered. Every time I chose the screen over him. Every time I said “not now.” Every time I looked at my phone while he was talking.
Those moments were not small. They were the bricks of his silence.
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| Colors he wanted to share. Moments I missed while looking for something "more important. |
A Body on the Sofa
I was in the same room. Every day. Every evening. I was there.
But I was not present.
There is a difference between being in the same space and being available. Between existing and being there. Between a body on the sofa and a father who looks up.
I was always there. Just not present. And he noticed.
What the Old Generation Understood
My parents had nothing. No phone. No internet. No distractions. But they had something we have lost.
They had time. Not in hours. In presence.
When my father sat with me, he sat with me. When my mother listened, she listened. There was no screen to pull her away. No notification to interrupt. No scroll to steal her attention.
They gave themselves. Fully. Without reservation.
We have so much more. And we give so much less.
We give “later.” We give “one minute.” We give our eyes to strangers and our backs to our children.
We prioritize people who do not know us over the ones who love us. We answer emails from colleagues but ignore the small hand on our sleeve.
We are not bad parents. We are distracted parents. And our children are paying the price.
One Day, He Will Stop Completely
I am afraid. Not of the big things. Of this small thing.
One day, he will be a teenager. He will close his door. He will have his own phone, his own world, his own friends. He will not need to pull my sleeve. He will not ask for my attention. He will have learned, long ago, that I am not available.
And on that day, I will remember these moments. The times I chose the screen over him. The “later” that became never. The shrug. The silence. The tower built without joy.
And I will regret. Deeply. Quietly. The way regret lives inside you forever.
I do not want that day to come. I do not want him to stop asking.
A Small Shift
I am trying. Not perfectly. Not every time. But I am trying.
This morning, he was playing with his blocks. I put my phone in the other room. I sat on the floor beside him. I did not say anything. I just picked up a block.
He looked at me. Surprised. Then he smiled. That smile. The one I have been missing without knowing.
We built a tower together. He knocked it down. He laughed. I laughed.
It was ten minutes. Ten minutes without a screen. Ten minutes of being present.
It is not much. But it is something. It is a start toward consistency.
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| Choosing the simple over the digital. One block, one note, one present moment at a time. |
What I Want You to Learn
If you are reading this, and you have a child who still pulls your sleeve, I want you to hear me.
Put the phone down. Not forever. Not all the time. Just for this moment.
Look at them. Really look. They are not asking for much. Just your eyes. Just your presence. Just the knowledge that they matter more than whatever is on that screen.
Because one day, they will stop asking. Not because they do not need you. Because they have learned that you are busy.
And silence will fill the space where their voice used to be.
Do not let that silence come.
I suspect I am not the only one. I suspect that somewhere, right now, a hand is reaching for a sleeve while an eye is fixed on a screen. If you have felt that shrug - if you have heard that silence - tell me. Not for the numbers, but so we can remind each other to look up.
Because we are all in this together. All distracted. All trying. All afraid of the day our children stop asking.
Closing
Tonight, after the children sleep, I will sit in the corner where he plays alone. I will think about the blocks. The tower. The shrug.
And I will promise myself again: tomorrow, when he calls, I will look up. I will put the phone down. I will say “Ja, beta. Ik kom.” (Yes, son. I am coming.)
Not “later.” Not “one minute.” Now.
Because I do not want him to stop asking. Not ever.
And one day, when he is grown and I am old, I want him to remember a father who looked at him. Who put the phone down. Who was there.
That is the only legacy that matters.
With love,
-Bitty
🙏❤️
Put the phone down. Just for this moment. He is still waiting.
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