 |
| The quiet battlefield: Trying to find focus before the rest of the house wakes up. |
This is the second week of the Easter holiday. Two weeks with no school for my son and no Dutch class for me. Just the four of us, inside this small apartment in Brugge, day after day.
I close the book and tell myself: today is wasted. I cannot focus. I am not learning. I am failing. But lately, I have started to wonder: is that true? Is a day of scattered, imperfect focus really the same as no focus at all?
There is a kind of noise in my life that never stops. Not the loud noise the quiet one. It is the constant pull of attention in a hundred directions. The baby needs to be fed. My older son needs entertainment. My wife needs a break. Work needs an answer. The laundry needs to be folded, the Dutch words need to be learned, and the phone needs to be checked. When I check it, there is always something else, something new, something waiting.
These two weeks have been harder than usual. My five-year-old is home all day. He wakes up at 7 AM and does not stop until 10 PM. He is innocent, but he has so much energy and so little understanding that his baby brother needs sleep. Every time the little one finally closes his eyes, my older son runs in. He shouts. He jumps on the bed. He wants to show me something or play something. The baby wakes, the crying starts, and my focus, already fragile, shatters completely.
 |
| The beautiful, exhausting evidence of a five-year-old’s energy in a small apartment. |
I try not to get angry. He is a child; he does not know. But inside, I feel the frustration building the guilt of snapping at him and the exhaustion of starting over, again and again.
The Screen That Never Leaves His Hand
My son needs the tablet or the television. Without it, he does not know what to do with himself. He asks every hour, sometimes every twenty minutes.
“Papa, mag ik de iPad?” (Dad, can I use the iPad?)
“Papa, mag ik tv kijken?” (Dad, can I watch TV?)
“Papa, mag ik jouw telefoon?” (Dad, can I use your phone?)
I say no sometimes. I try to limit it. I remember my own childhood no tablet, no television, no phone. We played outside. We made toys from sticks and stones. We ran until the sun went down.
But here, in this apartment, with rain outside and no garden and a baby who needs quiet, I understand why parents give in. It is not laziness; it is survival. Five minutes of peace while he watches cartoons is a chance to feed the baby. A chance to breathe.
Still, I see what it is doing to him. His attention span is short. When the screen goes off, he is restless and bored, unable to imagine his own games. He needs the next video, the next game, the next bright color. He is five years old, and already, he is dependent.
We Are All the Same
I cannot judge him, because I am the same.
When I sat in the laundromat last week, waiting for the washing machine, the first thing I did was connect to the WiFi. Without it, I would have felt lost. I checked messages, scrolled through news from Nepal, and listened to music anything to avoid sitting still.
We are raising a generation that cannot be bored. They cannot wait or sit in silence. And we are the same. We check our phones while feeding the baby, while eating dinner, or while our children are trying to tell us something. I know what is happening in America, in Ukraine, and in Japan. I know what my cousin in Australia ate for breakfast and the weather in Kathmandu.
But do I know what my son is thinking right now? Do I know why he is suddenly quiet? Do I know the name of the woman who lives upstairs? No. I do not. We know everything about everywhere, and nothing about here.
 |
| A memory of the orange fire and the simple light of a world without screens. |
Then and Now
When I was five years old, there was no mobile phone in my village. No television. No electricity. My toys were sticks, stones, and the mud by the river. My entertainment was watching my mother cook by the orange fire, listening to my grandfather's stories, and running with the other children until the light faded.
My childhood was made of dirt, water, and rough wood; his childhood is made of smooth glass and glowing lights. I was never bored. Not because I had more imagination, but because there was no other option. The world was right in front of me, and I had to engage with it. Now, my son has a thousand options, yet he cannot engage with any of them for more than five minutes. The tablet gives him everything instantly. And because it gives him everything, he wants nothing.
My mother never had a phone. She never knew what was happening in the next village, let alone the next country. But she knew everything that mattered. She knew when the goat was sick. She knew when the neighbor needed help. She knew when I was tired before I said a word. She lived in the real world, not the virtual one.
 |
| My childhood was made of dirt, water, and the slow rhythm of the river. |
What Digital Technology Has Done to Our Minds
I am not against technology. I use it every day to learn Dutch, to call my father, and to write these blogs. But I have noticed something: my memory is worse than before. My attention span is shorter. I struggle to read more than a few pages without reaching for my phone. I feel anxious when I cannot check my messages.
This is not just me. This is all of us. We have outsourced our memory to Google, our patience to infinite scrolling, and our connection to likes and comments. We have forgotten how to be still. My son cannot sit for five minutes without a screen, and I cannot sit for five minutes without checking my phone. We are the same. He is just younger, and he is learning from me.
What This Holiday Has Taught Me
Two weeks at home. No school. No escape. Just the four of us, in this small apartment, trying not to lose our minds. I have learned that I cannot force focus. I cannot force silence. I cannot force my brain to cooperate.
But I can do small things:
- Five minutes of reading before anyone wakes up.
- One Dutch word while the baby feeds.
- A short conversation with my older son, without looking at my phone.
- A moment of patience when he wakes the baby again, instead of anger.
 |
| Focus isn't just in books; it's in the steam, the pan, and the simple act of cooking a meal. |
I have learned that imperfect focus is not failure. It is the only focus that fits into a life like mine. Five minutes is not nothing; it is five minutes more than zero. One word is not nothing; it is one word more than zero. A patient breath is a moment of love instead of frustration.
Your Turn
If you are reading this and you are struggling with focus whether because of children, work, or the constant pull of your phone I want you to know: you are not alone.
Your children are watching you. If you cannot put down your phone, they will not learn to put down theirs. The old generation had something we lost. Not technology, but presence. The ability to be where they were, with the people in front of them.
Small focus still counts. The holiday will end. The baby will sleep. Until then, be kind to yourself and to your children. They are not trying to ruin your focus; they are just being children.
I want to hear from you. How do you find focus in a house full of children? How do you manage screen time? Do you remember a childhood without screens? Share your story in the comments below. We are all in this together all scattered, all trying, and all learning that imperfect focus is how real people live real lives.
A Different Kind of Focus
Tonight, after both children finally sleep, I will open my Dutch book. I will read one sentence. Maybe two. I will not set a timer or make a plan. I will just let myself be there for as long as the quiet lasts.
And when the baby cries because he will cry I will close the book. I will go to him and hold him. I will know that I did something today. Not nothing. Something.
I will also put my phone down. I will look at my older son and remember that he is five years old only once. His need for attention is not an interruption; it is his childhood. That is focus. Not the kind they write about in books, but the kind that shows up in the cracks.
It is not perfect. But it is mine. And it is enough.
-Bitty
🙏❤️
Five minutes. Every day. That is enough. And maybe, put the phone down for just one of those minutes.
Post a Comment