My attention span was born into the world the moment my plump, nubby fingers cracked open the spine of The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. In its infancy, it thrived, as I devoured the tale of an absolutely famished caterpillar. It gave me the determination to immerse myself in every word the book spoke, and experience the caterpillar’s life. Like treasures bobbing closer to shore, it latched onto whatever story was nearby and enjoyed them one at a time. Its resilience faded slightly as grubby toddler hands imprinted themselves on my caterpillar at preschool. But still, my attention span didn’t falter.
From immersing myself in the painstaking creation of slime, my attention span began as a patient and wholesome thing. I would drape chewy, stretchy slime across my hands, my iPad propped against a tissue box. Even after my slimy shenanigans, it seemed to have endless energy, miraculously allowing me to do homework on top of everything else. Thin, but pestering sheets of math problems—completed with ease. Coloring worksheets—every corner filled. A diary from the perspective of a character—no problem.
My attention span continued to mature into an esteemed, fine connoisseur. Every so often, freed from my bedroom chambers and plunged into my sink, my stuffed animals faced their weekly baths. I showered them in soapy goodness and my personal shampoo, then baked them with the hair dryer. Throughout the process, it was my attention span that inspired me. I was immersed in the cleaning routine, and day after day, it kept me going through the bubbly journey. Soaking, scrubbing, rinsing, conditioning—it was a stuffed-animal ritual I could never imagine performing again without my attention span by my side.
The last, lingering memory of my attention span began with a request—a plea—to my parents for an app. There came a time when I began to crave stimulation beyond what slime and caterpillar books could offer. After working so strenuously for years, it began to itch for an early retirement. The oasis of relaxation I found—Instagram—a vibrant supermarket stocked with more than a fridge could store—became the cause of my attention span’s demise.
While perusing—well, skimming—short-form video clips, my attention span developed an exquisite taste that only viral dishes could satisfy. Served an endless platter, it feasted on its favorites, while the rest were, of course, tossed aside. Meanwhile, my right-hand thumb pranced across my phone screen, traveling through the digital realms of GRWMs, food, social media doctors, and a grandma’s accidental post.
Thoughts—or anything that required thinking—began to disappear. Baubles flew into the hands of my attention span, and it mindlessly devoured anything that glittered. In its inactivity, it grew old, strained, and stubborn, tightening around the edges. Unwilling to leave its comfortable position and search for real gold, it locked itself away in the only world that could accommodate it. A caterpillar was no longer enough—it craved a butterfly. If only it had lasted long enough to reach the final page of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
