Deficit of attention

I felt a little hand grab mine and heard, "Dad, can I have your attention?" As I drifted back to earth, I realized Ford had been trying to talk to me for a while.

"Of course."

I apologized for being preoccupied. In a long, run-on sentence, he told me a story about animals, rarely pausing to breathe.

I grew up in a big family. It was easy to get lost in the chaos and the noise or to drown it all out by retreating to my thoughts.

This pattern has occurred often enough with my children that I've asked them to grab my hand if they think I can't hear them. They politely ask for my attention, and I always say yes. Whatever I'm thinking about just never seems to be more important.

As a child, I didn't have this option, so I adapted to needing less. My siblings would roll their eyes if they heard me say this because I was the oldest. I had more attention than all of them, and for a moment, some of it was undivided.

The words "attention economy" make me shiver. I can only picture a room full of children behaving poorly to win an ever-shrinking pool of attention. It's like living in the largest family on earth.

I don't want to differentiate myself from others to win attention. I don't want to compete. I'd like to think I don't need attention at all.

But that's not true.

If I'm honest, I'm a boy reaching for someone's hand, asking for attention—not because I'm selfish or attention-seeking but because I want to be seen.

Because I want to be known.

It pains me to ask for attention, but I must. It's the only way to become known, and when someone says, "Yes!" It is a precious gift.

I can see it in Ford's eyes.