Jill's Jabber: Are you listening to me? Paying attention is hard

“Want to hear what happened today at school?” Isaac asked as he got in the car. He was just a little boy, around 7-years-old, and he always had stories to tell.

“Yeah, of course, what happened?” I asked, fully intending on listening.

He began, “So today at recess...” My mind started to wonder what I was going to make for dinner.

“So then he went over…” Isaac continued. I decided on spaghetti.

“Uh huh. Wow.” I interjected.

“Then, the teacher...”

“Oh. Really?” I interjected again - so that Isaac could tell I was still “listening.”

Suddenly his story stopped.

“So what do you think Mom?”

“Cool!” This was a great answer on my part.

Isaac looked at me in shock. “No Mom. It isn’t cool at all. I just told you that one kid punched another kid and got in trouble by the teacher and was sent home.”

“Oh, I see, I uh…”

“You didn’t even listen. Did you?” Isaac asked.

I had no excuse, no answer, no way out. I was completely caught.

I don’t know if it’s the high pitch in their little voice quality that sends my mind on an immediate road-trip or if it’s the subject matter that just can’t compete with the information super-highway I have going on in my head at any given moment, or if I just have ADD.

Whatever the cause, what I usually hear is the beginning of the story: “Mom, today at school someone...” then I hear “blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah” as I wonder if I remembered to switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer.

They continue: “Then at recess…blah blah blah blah blah.”

The talking continues as the child follows me around the house while I do chores and “listen” to them.

But then the talking stops. I think of a good response - something really neutral.

Ever since the “No Mom, that’s not cool at all” incident I have been more careful.

Well, not to get caught.

Why can’t I listen to their stories?

They listen to my stories.

When Isaac was 8-years-old I told him a story about when I was in first grade, living in North Carolina, and the principle actually had a paddle in his office.

Isaac was hanging on every word.

I continued, telling him that one day I actually got my hand slapped by my teacher with a ruler for something I didn’t even do. Then I added that it was a hard year because I was the new kid and I was the only black girl in the school.

As soon as I said it, I realized the mistake and was about to correct myself when Isaac turned to me with his eyes popping out of his little head as he shouted shockingly,

“You used to be black?”

He was listening.

Lest we adults think we are the only ones guilty of not listening, let me tell you that kids are masters of the art of selective listening.

When Zoe was born, I had a feeling that there was something really special about her. Within a week after her birth I knew what it was: she was stone deaf.

I would make loud noises right next to her and she wouldn’t even flinch.

I shouted her name a few inches from her one day and she didn’t even bat an eye.

I knew we could handle this as a family - we would all simply learn sign language and go forward.

She was cute as a button and deaf.

But then I took her up to the hospital for her hearing test the next week and the nurse came out of the nursery with her and a little certificate (I thought it was cute that they gave certificates saying “officially hearing impaired”), but then she cheerfully said, “She passed with flying colors in both ears” and handed me the certificate that actually just said “normal” for right and “normal” for left.

“What?” I asked, looking at the certificate.

She repeated the result and I said, “I was certain she was completely deaf!”

The nurse laughed and said, “I guess she already has selective hearing.”

Yeah, I guess so. We still call her our “deaf child” because she really is the master. She can tune us out like nobody’s business.

They all can.

I will give them a simple command, say… “I need everybody to go upstairs and clean their rooms.”

I get nothing.

So I will ask a couple more times with no response, seriously NO response. Not even a mumbled “OK” or anything.

So I finally yell.

I hate yelling, just for the record. But I also hate the fact that sometimes it is just the ticket.

They all wake up from their little trance and then they are in motion! But sometimes they’ll complain that I yelled at them.

“Well, I asked you three times in a nice voice and I asked you once in a yelling voice and that’s the voice you listened too. If you would listen to me the first time I asked you, I would never yell.”

They sigh and head off.

Listening is one of the most important skills a person, and especially a parent, can have. I actually really try to listen to them.

My brain just can’t help itself. But I keep trying. And there are times when, as a result of listening to every single word they say, I get a real glimpse into their minds and hearts. I understand their life better and we grow closer to each other.

And some day they’ll have children with selective hearing that they might have to holler at, and I can just smile and turn my hearing aid down.