By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd

“Can I show you something?”

It’s the question of the day, the same one I am asked over and over again, from 7:00 in the morning till 8:00 at night. The asker of the question, my nine-year-old son, beckons me into his bedroom, into the humid garage, into the communal dining room where his school-provided Chromebook sits open on the table. 

He wants to show me something. He wants to show me everything. 

Here’s a LEGO car he constructed, a hilarious joke he found in a book, the latest gadget he built from his KiwiCo subscription. Look, Mommy! I made a lockbox with a real key! I ooooh and ahhhh and ask, “What are you going to keep in there?” I assume he’s going to use the DIY vault to store LEGO mini figures, but apparently he intends to lock up scissors and sharpie markers in the name of brotherly responsibility. “So Presley can’t get them,” he tells me matter-of-factly. 

But wait, there’s more.

He wants to show me the art he made in honor of Earth Day, and the small package of m&m’s his teacher rewarded him for meeting his reading goals. He wants to show me the journal entry he completed ten minutes ago that took up “the whole page.” He wants to show me a flip on the trampoline, how far he can jump off the swing, the way he can ride his bike with no hands for exactly four seconds on the patio.

Can I show you something?
Can I show you something?
Mommy, can I show you something?

This is where I want to tell you I view every beloved thing with genuine enthusiasm, that I care very deeply about marble runs and Magna-Tile car ramps and paper costumes stapled around dilapidated stuffed animals. I wish I could tell you I bear witness to every jagged rock he finds in the backyard with delight, placing it in the palm of my hand, studying it like an archeologist, uttering wow in sincere amazement. This is where I want to tell you I never ever (ever!) say, “Wow, that’s cool, buddy” without even actually looking at whatever thing he’s eagerly parading in front of my eyeballs.

The truth? Oftentimes my response to, “Can I show you something?” is Not right now, babe, or—even worse—Make it quick.

(Insert your cringe here.)

In my defense, the question doesn’t always come at the best times. My son usually wants me to follow him to the thing he needs to show me, which isn’t exactly ideal when I’m halfway through emptying the dishwasher, or standing in the bathroom with a scorching curling wand wrapped around my hair, or—most commonly—two seconds after I’ve sat down with a plate of piping hot food. 

Recently, though, on a day where Everett begged to show me more than a dozen things before lunch, I remembered a piece of parenting advice I heard a while ago: when you care about the little things when your kids are younger, they’ll be more inclined to bring you the bigger things when they’re older.

Today, it’s LEGOs. 

Tomorrow, it’s love.

***

“This isn’t about writing …” my friend’s voice streams through the Voxer app, offering a disclaimer for what is about to tumble out of her mouth. 

We established our mastermind group with a specific purpose: to hold one another accountable in our writing and creative goals. And while it most certainly is that, I think we all would agree: our group chat, formed just before the start of the pandemic, quickly became something else entirely. With four of us spread across the country in four different states, this little walkie talkie app has become a life raft over the past year, offering a safe place to stay afloat throughout Covid, a tumultuous election, not to mention difficult and heavy things happening in our personal lives. We do talk a lot about writing, yes, but we talk about other things, too. Marriage. Motherhood. Books. Current events. Faith. We laugh and cry and pray for each other as we walk around our neighborhoods, fold laundry, or—my personal favorite—sit in quiet cars in grocery store parking lots.

After my friend offers a disclaimer for what she’s about to say, she spills what’s on her heart, and then apologizes for taking up our time. 

I can’t tap the little button fast enough: Don’t ever apologize for sharing with us. We’re writers, yes, but before that, we’re friends. We care about what you have to say. We care about you. 

In other words: you can show us whatever you want, or need, to show us here. 

***

After sitting on my to-read list for practically a decade, I finally read Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way, last year. I found it interesting, and a little bit strange, how often she asks the reader to identify people who support their creative work and people who don’t. Several times she instructs the reader to make two lists: a list of yes people, and a list of no people. Who supports you? Who cheers you on? And then, who doesn’t? Write their names down.

“One of our chief needs as creative beings is support,” she writes in the first chapter.

Last year, I began embarking on a rather large, scary, creative endeavor. Almost every single person I have told about this project is wildly happy for me, but one friend in my life does not seem to care whatsoever. Sometimes, it even seems as though she is trying to go out of her way to not acknowledge it. The few times I’ve mentioned this pursuit, she quickly changes the subject. Which is odd, because, for me at least—this is a pretty big deal. I might as well have told her I’m going to be heading up to Mars next month, that I’ve joined Space Force in my free time. 

“Oh,” I imagine her replying, not batting an eye, “So what else is new?”

I can take a hint. As a result, I’ve stopped mentioning the endeavor altogether. When I talk to her, I simply pretend this Big Thing I’m doing doesn’t exist at all. As if it’s not happening, as if it’s not real. Our conversations are simple, and polite, and friendly, but I almost feel like I’m not all there. Like I’m half-me, half-ghost. 

Within the context of this specific friendship, I’ve stopped asking, “Can I show you something?” 

Because after someone says “no” enough times, why bother?

***

I am writing at my desk when Everett barges in and drops an engineering experiment beside my laptop. He’s made a “vacuum chamber” using a syringe, a balloon, and what appears to be a plastic bell jar. 

“Look Mommy! Watch the air pressure!” 

He blows up the balloon using the syringe, looking at my face waiting for a reaction. I widen my eyes and tell him how cool it is, which is all he needs to hear before lifting everything off my desk and exiting the room as quickly as he appeared. On his way out the door, he pauses and flashes me a smile. The entire exchange lasts less than a minute.

I know there’s a fine line to the endless, “Can I show you something?” questions. I believe it’s important to cultivate a spirit of independence in our kids, just like it’s important to honor other people’s boundaries. I am not always going to be able to drop what I am doing to go look at something in a split second. 

But am I saying yes more than no? If I brush off what’s important today, will he still ask me about what’s important tomorrow? Will my friends? My husband?

My son invites me into his world every day with that one little question. Can I show you something? While the constant solicitation can often overwhelm me, I also know every time I say yes, every time I show up, every time I marvel at whatever precious masterpiece he built out of LEGOs that particular day, I am simultaneously sending a message straight to his heart: I care about the things you care about.

And the message underneath the message: Because I care about you.

Words and photo by Ashlee Gadd.