Multitasking, Parenthood, and the Fear of Losing Control

I’m sitting on the floor of our bedroom sorting through a basket of random crap.

Gummy bears. Two nickels that are mysteriously stuck together. Box cutters. Three kinds of tape, which prompts me to form a tape pile. At least 20,000 yards of dental floss. Inexplicably two “sunrise” alarm clocks that are supposed to wake you up with light, neither of which I ever even plugged in. Six different sized allen wrenches.

As I wonder who the hell Allen was, and stare at this mess like an archaeologist trying to piece together the habits of an ancient disorganized parent, Sue comes in to ask me if she can take a shower. She does this because when you have small children, you can’t just take a shower without a childcare plan in place.

I nod, and as she disappears I assess the situation in the other room. It seems to be surprisingly stable.

For context: Gus just turned sixteen months old, and my current working theory is that he’s the reincarnation of Chris Farley. Same hair. Same belly. Same commitment to slapstick physical comedy. He has zero interest in anything that’s not sharp, unstable, or a choking hazard. Lately he’s been climbing onto chairs by standing on them first, then sitting down, like he’s trying to master the basics of toddler parkour.

But for now he’s stacking blocks, knocking them over, and clapping for himself, so I figure I’ll keep sorting and peek in every 30 seconds or so.

I didn’t have my phone. That was intentional. One of my New Year’s commitments has been to put it away when I’m with the kids.

And still.

My attention narrowed to this basket. This completely pointless sorting project that suddenly felt urgent.

Christmas vacation was almost over. This small pocket of time needed to be used wisely. The allen wrenches needed homes. The alarm clocks needed to be plugged in. The gummy bears needed…eating.

I sorted. I peeked around the corner. I sorted some more.

Then about 10 seconds after a peek I heard a crash and a scream.

Gus was on the floor. Mae was still drawing, calm as ever. When I asked what happened, she looked up, clearly annoyed that I’d interrupted her work.

“Gus climbed on the table.”

“Did you push him off?”

“Yeah he stepped on my paper.”

And she went back to drawing a porcupine wearing a party hat.

Gus was fine. Just a small bruise on the end of his nose, which combined with his already rosy cheeks made him look like a baby Santa Claus.

But the shame felt like a punch in the gut.

Instead of just being with my kids, I decided to give my attention to sorting hair ties and paper clips. Why?

As I held my sniffling future Ninja Warrior champion and marveled at the fact that Mae was now drawing a mermaid that looked an awful lot like a penis, I tried to look at what was beneath this damp blanket of shame.

There was the obvious “you’re a bad parent” voice lecturing me about why I should have seen that coming, how next time he won’t be so lucky, etc.

But a little deeper there was a belief that if I really loved my kids, if they were truly that important, then they should hold my attention naturally. I must just not care enough.

But I’m starting to see that this pull to constantly multitask and aversion to simply being with my kids isn’t born out of a lack of love, but a fear of losing control.

Sorting hex wrenches? That I can finish. Emptying the dishwasher? Done. Checking email? At least there’s the illusion of productivity.

Just sitting and playing with a 16-month-old who acts like a drunk uncle ruining his niece’s wedding? There’s nothing to accomplish. Nothing to complete. Trying to control him is like trying to give a cat a bubble bath.

But in these moments where I can let go of results and just play some god damn peekaboo, there’s joy there.

I don’t think that pull toward control ever goes away. But maybe the work is just noticing it. Loosening the grip a little.

Because when I imagine looking back years from now, there’s zero chance I’ll wish I’d spent more time organizing spare Ikea bolts.

And a much stronger chance I’ll wish I’d spent more time on the floor with my kids while they’re still climbing furniture and drawing phallic mermaids.

---

If you’re looking for a photographer who approaches life and work with intention, I’d love to connect and hear your story.