My 5-year-old son was standing beside me. I do not know for how long.
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| Regret is the sound of minutes we can never get back. |
I was on my phone. Scrolling. Something unimportant. A notification. A message. A video I do not even remember now. My five-year-old 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.
“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. I called his name. He did not answer. He was in his room, sitting on the floor, playing alone with his blocks. Quiet. Too quiet.
And something inside me cracked.
The Weight of a Small Shrug
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| The work of a five-year-old is important, even when we are too busy to see it. |
I sat down beside him. “Wat ben je aan het maken?” (What are you making?)
He did not look up. “Een toren.” (A tower.)
“Mag ik helpen?” (Can I help?)
He shrugged. The smallest shrug. Not angry. Not sad. Just… indifferent. As if he had already decided that Papa is busy, Papa is on his phone, Papa does not have time.
I helped him build the tower. He let me. But the joy was not there. The excitement was gone. The “Papa, kijk!” (Dad, look!) was silent.
That night, I could not sleep. I kept thinking about that shrug. That small, quiet acceptance. He did not fight. He did not cry. He just… adjusted.
Children do not complain forever. They learn. They learn that when Papa is on his phone, he is not available. They learn that “one minute” means five, ten, or never. They learn to stop asking.
And one day, they stop completely.
Not because they do not need us. Because they have learned that we are busy. That our attention belongs to the screen, not to them.
The Battle for My Eyes
I know this. I have written about it. I have read about it. I have promised myself a hundred times to put the phone down.
But I keep forgetting.
The baby needs something. Work needs something. The email needs an answer. The news needs to be checked. The scroll needs to continue. And my son, my beautiful five-year-old son who will only be five once, stands beside me with his small hand on my sleeve, asking for something so simple.
My eyes.
My presence.
My “I am here, beta. I am listening.”
And I say “one minute” again. And again. And again.
The Silence That Is Not Peace
There is a silence in our apartment now. Not the good silence the quiet of a sleeping baby or a peaceful morning. The other silence. The silence of a child who has stopped asking.
He still plays. He still laughs. He still tells me about his day. But I notice the pauses. The moments when he used to pull my sleeve and now just waits. Or does not wait at all. Just goes to his room. Just plays alone.
Silence is not always peace. Sometimes it is distance. Sometimes it is a small child learning that his father is not really there.
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| Beyond the screen, there is a world waiting for us to look up. |
I think about my own father. How he was always present. Not because he had nothing else to do. 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 phone in his hand. No screen to distract him. Just his eyes, looking at his son.
He never said “one minute.” He just turned. He just listened. He just was there.
And now I am the father. And I am failing at the one thing he did so easily.
The Fear of a Quiet House
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 “one minutes” that became hours. 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. I want him to always believe that his father has time. That his father will look up. That his father will put the phone down.
The Small Shift
I am trying. Not perfectly. Not every time. But I am trying.
This morning, he called me while I was reading the news on my phone. “Papa, kom je kijken?” (Dad, will you come look?)
I put the phone down. Face down. On the table. I walked to him. He had drawn a picture. A family. Four stick figures. A sun. A house.
“Mooi, beta.” (Beautiful, son.)
He smiled. That smile. The one that still makes my heart stop.
I stayed with him for ten minutes. No phone. No distraction. Just me and my son and his drawing.
It is not much. But it is something. It is a start.
What I Am Starting to Understand
I keep thinking about that moment.
The way he let go of my sleeve. The way he walked away without a word.
Maybe children do not stop asking suddenly.
Maybe it happens slowly. One “one minute” at a time.
I do not think he needs more toys.
I do not think he needs more screens.
I think he just needs me to look up.
I am writing this because I suspect I am not the only one.
I suspect that somewhere, right now, another father or mother is reading this on a screen while a small hand is reaching for their sleeve.
If you have felt that shrug - if you have known that silence - tell me. Not for the algorithm, but so we can remind each other to look up.
How do you find your way back to them when the world in your pocket feels so loud?
Closing
Tonight, after the children sleep, I will put my phone in another room. I will sit on the floor where my son played alone. I will think about that shrug. That small, quiet acceptance.
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 “one minute.” Not “later.” 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 waiting.
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