Do You Hear What I Hear?

He prattled on about the black walnut and cottonwood and skyscraper-high white oak he'd seen at camp that afternoon. About the delicate green katydid that had pranced along his forearm and the robin that had swished blissfully in the birdbath.

I buzzed around the kitchen like a black wasp in bee balm—urgently, noisily focused—dicing onions, smacking pan onto burner, clapping oven shut to seal in crisp garlic bread, browning sizzling meat, clattering silverware onto mahogany.

"Really?" I murmured, eyes on spoon, stirring as my son Noah mentioned the katydid. "Huh," I added in response to his story of the splashing robin. My knife scattered scallions, gouging swaths into wooden cutting board.

I interjected "Hmmmm" and "Neat!" intermittently to the conversation as Noah talked on.

My mind whirred, loping ahead to the deadline, the neglected laundry, the emails stacked one atop the other in my in-box. "Yummy!" I absentmindedly answered Noah as he continued his narration.

Silence.

I glanced up, chef's knife quiet on cutting board, and met Noah's eyes from where he was perched on the kitchen stool.

"Why did you just say 'yummy,' Mommy?" Noah asked, his accusation slicing like sharp-edged prairie grass.

I'd been caught.

You see, over the last eight years, I've developed a system to manage my Olympic-caliber multitasking. I have at the ready a set of canned responses, words and phrases I interject at appropriate moments to maintain the illusion of conversation.

"Really?" "Wow!" "Hmmmm," "That's interesting," and "Yummy!" are my top five responses.

"You weren't even listening to me," Noah accused. "You said 'yummy' and that doesn't even make sense."

He was right. I wasn't listening.

I hardly ever listened. So driven was I to accomplish every last item on my to-do list, I'd neglected a critical responsibility: letting my children know they are heard, that their words are valued.

How can I expect my sons will talk to me about their fears and anxieties—or, when the time comes, about girls or drinking or drugs—if I won't even listen to their thoughts on trees or birds or bugs?

I sheepishly apologized to Noah that evening in the kitchen, while the meat sizzled in the skillet and the pasta water frothed in a rapid boil. I told him I was sorry that I hadn't listened, that I would try to slow down and tune in more fully.

Just a few nights later I stood at the stove again, sliding red pepper strips, water chestnuts and sugar snap peas into oiled wok. Noah sat on his kitchen stool and described a dream he'd had the night before, something about a crocodile in a swimming pool.

"Really?" I murmured, my back toward him, hand on hip.

The word, a hollow question, hung in the hot air above the rattle of the exhaust fan.

Turning the burner to low, I balanced the spoon on the edge of the wok, wiped hands on apron and walked two steps across the kitchen to where Noah sat on the bar stool. Resting elbows on the counter, chin in hands, I leaned close.

“So how big was this crocodile anyway?” I asked my son.

“He was humongous—like this big,” said Noah, eyes wide, slender arms spread. “And he was splashing his tail like crazy. I thought he was going to eat me!”

“So did he?” I asked. “Did he eat you? Were you scared?”

“No! He turned out to be nice—we were friends right before I woke up,” explained Noah. We laughed at that, how unlikely it was to become friends with a crocodile, how dreams were funny that way.

The conversation didn’t take long—just a minute or two. When it was done, I returned to the stove, fired up the burner and stirred.

How do you slow down, tune-in and really listen? Have you ever been caught merely pretending to listen?

"Looking for a Place" photo by Kelly Langner Sauer. Used with permission. Post by Michelle DeRusha.