Tell Me Again—I'm Listening Now—Parenting in Overwhelm
- Cristina Fischer
- May 21
- 5 min read
Updated: Jun 21
When Parenthood Pulls You in Every Direction, and God Calls You to Be Still
It was a small moment.
The kind that usually goes unnoticed.
I was folding laundry, running through mental checklists, and nodding while my child talked beside me. Something about a dream. I smiled. Mumbled “That’s cool, baby.” Kept folding.
But then they stopped. Looked at me. And said something that pierced deeper than I expected:
“You’re not listening.”
They were right.
I was there. But I wasn’t really with them. My hands were busy. My mind was three steps ahead. My heart? Distracted by responsibility.
And in that moment, I realized something:
I didn’t want to just be a provider. I wanted to be present. The kind of mom whose children feel safe enough to ramble. Important enough to interrupt. Loved enough to ask, “Can I tell you again?”
This is the story of what shifted—and how God taught me that true presence begins with slowing down the soul.
Presence used to be a checklist item for me.
I believed that if I was in the room, making dinner, folding clothes, handling bedtime—I was doing enough. And in many ways, I was doing a lot.
But emotionally, I was drifting.
It started subtly. I’d nod while a child told me something, but my brain was still sorting through work emails. Or I’d smile while they played near me, but I wasn’t fully taking them in. I told myself it was okay—I was busy, but I was home.
That had to count for something, right?
But my children, in their innocent honesty, have always been my mirror.
That day when I was folding laundry and my child said, “You’re not listening,” I felt it in my chest. It wasn’t an accusation. It was an ache. A little voice trying to reach mine.
I stopped folding. Looked up. And said, “You’re right. I wasn’t. Can you tell me again?”
Their whole face changed. Like something opened.
Not just in them… in me.
That moment wrecked me in the best way. Because it showed me the cost of distraction isn’t measured in productivity—it’s measured in connection. My presence wasn’t felt, even though I was physically near.
The hard truth?
Sometimes the people closest to us don’t need more provision. They need more attention. More softness. More “Tell me again. I’m listening now.”
That moment didn’t solve everything. I still get distracted. Still wrestle with long lists and tired days. But it became a turning point.
I started noticing how often I was half-there. And I started asking: What if presence isn’t about time—it’s about posture?
I began practicing tiny shifts:
Looking up from my phone the moment someone walks in
Giving eye contact even when I’m tired
Touching their arm when they talk, to say “I’m here” without a word
Pausing mid-task to kneel down and really listen
And slowly… my kids stopped saying “You’re not listening.”
They started telling longer stories. Started opening up unprompted. One even whispered, “I love talking to you. You listen really good.”
I didn’t need more hours in the day. I just needed to be all in during the moments I already had.
And that’s what I want to say to every parent who feels stretched thin:
You don’t have to become someone else.
You don’t have to perfect your schedule.
But you can pause.
You can lift your head and say, “Tell me again.”
And that one moment might rewrite a memory they carry forever.
Jesus Didn’t Rush the Children - Parenting from Peace
There’s a moment in the Gospels I’ve read many times—but as a mother learning to be truly present, it hit me differently.
“People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them.”— Mark 10:13 (NIV)
To the disciples, the children were a distraction. A delay. An interruption to more important ministry. To Jesus, they were the ministry.
He saw what the disciples missed: that these moments—messy, small, filled with rambling stories and sticky fingers—matter deeply to the heart of God.
“When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.’”— Mark 10:14
That word indignant is strong. It means deeply disturbed, almost angry. Jesus didn’t just gently correct the disciples—He was offended by their dismissal.
Why?
Because these children weren’t just tiny bodies—they were souls. Souls that mattered enough for Him to stop everything. In a culture that saw children as unimportant until they could contribute, Jesus did something revolutionary.
He made space.
He touched them. He blessed them. And He said they carried something we adults desperately need: a pure heart of trust.
“Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”— Mark 10:15
This isn’t just a parenting lesson. It’s a kingdom one.
Jesus didn't bless the children as a side note. He used that moment to teach grown men how the Kingdom works.
He was fully present.
He didn’t multitask.
He didn’t rush the encounter.
And as someone who has rushed more moments than I’d like to admit, that convicts me.
But it also comforts me. Because it means that when I pause—really pause—to engage with my children, I’m not stepping away from ministry… I’m stepping right into it.
God’s presence is never distracted. He doesn’t nod while thinking about something else. He listens to us—messy, repetitive, fumbling as we may be—and says, “Tell Me again. I’m here.”
That’s the model. That’s the invitation.
And that’s the kind of parent I want to be.
Reflection and Takeaways
We often assume presence has to mean hours of undivided attention, perfectly curated family time, or zero interruptions. But the truth is—presence is posture, not perfection. It's the tone in our voice. The way our eyes meet theirs. The softness in how we pause when we’d rather finish the task.
Here are a few practices that helped me rebuild emotional presence at home—simple shifts that opened space for deeper connection:
Micro-pauses. Instead of “uh-huh” while multitasking, I started saying, “Hold on, I want to give you my full attention.” Then I stopped and looked up. Just that shift taught my children their voice had weight.
Intentional check-ins. Even if I only had five minutes, I made it count. “Tell me one thing about your day” or “What made you smile today?” became anchors.
Physical nearness. Touching their shoulder while they talked, sitting on the floor while they played, even walking side-by-side—these small things communicate: I’m here.
If this hits home, ask yourself:
When was the last time I felt truly with my child?
What are the distractions that steal my attention the fastest?
How would my child describe my presence?
A prayer for presence:
Father, help me slow down enough to see the little moments as holy. Help me reflect Your heart—a God who listens, lingers, and never rushes me. Teach me to parent like You. In Jesus’ name, amen.
Closing
If you’ve ever looked up and realized you were present in body but far away in spirit—welcome to the club. You’re not a bad parent. You’re not disconnected on purpose. You’re just carrying a lot. And sometimes, our capacity to do can unintentionally steal from our capacity to see.
But you can begin again—today.
All it takes is one moment.
One pause.
One “Tell me again. I’m listening now.”
That simple shift can rebuild trust. Can repair what hustle tried to steal. Can remind your child—and your heart—that love often sounds like attention.
If this story met you where you are, I wrote it for you. If you need someone to talk to about this, don't hesitate, schedule now!
—because presence isn’t just about parenting… it’s about healing.
Let’s slow down together.
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