How to Make Time for Each Kid When You’re Already Too Busy: Real Parenting Tips That Don’t Require Extra Planning
Last Tuesday, I was standing at the kitchen counter scraping burnt cheese off the pizza pan when the tugging started. Lila, my 7-year-old, had her whole arm wrapped around my sweatshirt, pulling me toward the living room. “Mom, come see, I made a new slime that doesn’t stick to carpet, I promise,” she said. From the dining room, Jax, 10, raised his voice over his open science fair board. “I need you to help me glue my title on before the glue dries, it can’t wait.” I sighed so loud my shoulders slumped. “Can’t either of you wait five minutes?” I said. When I looked up, Lila had let go of my shirt and was already walking back to the couch, shoulders hunched. Jax didn’t say anything, just picked up the glue bottle himself. I stood there holding the dirty spatula, and suddenly I remembered what his teacher said at parent-teacher conferences three weeks prior: “He told me you don’t have time to hear about his soccer games anymore.”
I’d always heard you need to make one-on-one time for each kid, but all the advice I saw talked about monthly coffee dates or special weekend outings. Between my part-time editing job, Lila’s weekly art class, Jax’s soccer practice twice a week, and keeping the house from turning into a total landfill, I couldn’t carve out two hours a week per kid, let alone more. I felt guilty for months, like I was shortchanging both of them just to get through the day.
Then I started testing small, low-effort changes that didn’t require adding anything new to my calendar. First, I started hitching one-on-one time to routines we already had. For example, every Tuesday and Thursday, I drop Jax at soccer 10 minutes early, and Lila and I have to sit in the car waiting for the coach to unlock the field before I leave. I used to spend that 10 minutes answering work emails or scrolling through grocery lists. Now I plug my phone into the car for music, put it face down, and just let Lila talk. Last week she rambled for 10 full minutes about why her friend Mia’s new pet hamster is way cooler than her old one, what she’s going to ask for her birthday, and why the sparkly sneakers she got last month are already too small. I didn’t have to fix anything, just listen.
Every night after Lila gets out of the bath, she’s busy sorting her pajamas and picking out a bedtime story, that’s 10 minutes where Jax and I get undivided time together. I sit on the closed bathroom toilet, he leans against the sink, and he shows me whatever dumb meme he found on his tablet, or talks about which kid on his team is hogging the ball at practice. That’s where he told me he’s been scared to take penalties anymore after he missed the game-winning shot last month. I never would have heard that if I was using that 10 minutes to fold laundry or answer texts.
When they both need me at the same time, which happens at least three times a day, I stopped saying “just wait” and started saying something specific. I used to think I had to drop everything for whoever got to me first, but that left one kid feeling ignored, and me feeling frazzled. Now I say, out loud, exactly what’s going to happen: “I see you both need me right now. Jax’s glue is drying, so I’m going to help him in 7 minutes, then it’s your turn. I won’t forget, I promise.” I also add that I get why waiting sucks: “I know it’s annoying to have to wait, I’d want my turn too.” It sounds tiny, but it’s stopped the both of them from yelling over each other, and it’s stopped me from snapping out of frustration.
I used to think that connection had to be big to count. I thought if I couldn’t take each kid out alone for a special afternoon once a month, I was failing. But what I’ve learned is that for kids, especially school-age kids, the small, frequent bits of time are way more important. Our pediatrician mentioned it once, and it stuck with me: kids build their sense of being loved from being seen in the boring, everyday stuff, not just the fancy outings. Lila can barely remember what we did at Disney last year, but she can recite every cloud shape we pointed out on the 10 minute drive to school when Jax takes the bus. Jax doesn’t talk about the time we took him to a professional soccer game two years ago, but he still brings up the 15 minutes we spent throwing a frisbee around the front yard after dinner last week when it was just the two of us.
It’s not perfect. Some nights I have a big deadline, and I tell both of them to go watch an episode of their show while I finish up. Some mornings I’m running late, and I brush off Lila’s story about her stuffed rabbit because I’m trying to find Jax’s missing cleats. I still forget to make space sometimes, and I still leave one kid sitting waiting longer than I promised.
Last night, it happened again. I was folding laundry right before bed, and Lila tugged my sleeve to show me the new rock collection she’d hidden under her bed, and Jax needed help tying his bow tie for the band concert tomorrow. I paused, wiped a ball of lint off my jeans, and said what I’ve been saying lately: “Jax, let’s get your tie done first, it’ll take two minutes. Lila, go set your rocks out on the coffee table, I’ll be right there.” When I sat down on the floor with Lila five minutes later, she pulled each rock out one by one, told me she named the gray one Dusty and the sparkly one Princess, and she found Dusty on the playground last week. My back ached from sitting on the hard floor, the pizza dishes were still in the sink from dinner, and I still had a load of towels to throw in the dryer. But when she climbed into my lap after she was done showing me, I could feel that it was enough. Most days, that’s all we get, and that’s all they need. I’m still figuring it out, same as everyone else.
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