I looked down at the squares of colorful peppers. Why would she want that?

Sara grabbed a plate and a fork, scooted her chair right next to mine, and said, “Ma, let’s play a game. You take a bite of orange pepper, then I’ll copy you. Then I’ll pick the color, and you copy me!”

So we munched our way slowly through the bowl — a yellow bite, then a green bite, then a red bite, then yellow again. We scraped the salad bowl clean.

“Ma,” Sara marveled, “I never knew how much I love peppers!”

“I have more on the counter if you want.” I gestured toward the cutting board, where half a red pepper remained uncut, surrounded by discarded seeds.

I stood up and began clearing the dishes, returning condiments to the fridge. I bent over to unload the dishwasher when—

“Ma.” Sara tapped my arm.

She rubbed at the limp pepper. “Cut it, Ma. I only like them chopped.”

I picked up my trusty Victorinox and diced the red pepper into neat squares, then rinsed the cutting board.

“But Ma….” Sara was still at it. “Why did you put the salad bowl in the sink? I only like the peppers in the bowl. At the table. Next to you.”

Aha.

I suddenly understood. It wasn’t the peppers she wanted.

I’d been noticing this pattern in my home. At the start of the season, I’d ordered a few new toys to beat the winter boredom blues. The kids enjoyed the boogie boards for a couple of evenings until they got lost in the clutter. They played Rat-a-Tat Cat twice. Then they were bored again.

So I ordered more stuff.

Dot-to-dot books. Challenge mazes. A Perplexus ball. Where’s Waldo. I subscribed to a kids’ magazine and ordered the entire A–Z Mysteries series. They enjoyed the gifts — they were stimulating and exciting — but they didn’t last. They never held them for long enough.

It finally hit me.

They didn’t really need the stuff to stay grounded. They didn’t need boogie boards or peppers.

They wanted to share themselves with me — busy, tired, distracted me.

Inspired by the salad, I made myself a challenge: no more Amazon orders. No more new stuff.

I’d play hangman on the boogie boards. Look for Waldo with them on the floor. Play Spaghetti and Meatballs while reading A–Z Mysteries. I’d do a puzzle with them. We’d share a sliced apple or a bag of chips.

Within a month, they needed me less.

They were playing hangman and tic-tac-toe. My son read a book on the couch. My daughter colored a picture. Sometimes I joined in. Sometimes I just watched.

And I knew they knew they had me.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 977)