You read that correctly. Eek, I feel like the worst mother on the planet for admitting that. Is it too late to take it back? But it’s true, most days. I was so looking forward to bonding with my son each Tues/Thurs while my daughter attended preschool. This would be “our” time. I’d teach him to wave (seriously, why won’t he just wave? That’s all I’m asking for.), to say his ABC’s, learn his colors, write an essay…you know, all the things a one year old is supposed to know and do. But instead, I find myself trying to run as many errands as I possibly can with the one child who doesn’t yet argue about sitting in the cart, the child who doesn’t have to be rushed from the very back of Target all the way to the front of the store to go potty all the time, the child who, for the most part, is pretty easy if you can get past the unnecessary fussiness.
As a child, I had a vivid and wild imagination. It was and is one of the things I treasure the most about my childhood and wish so fervently that my children inherit from me. I remember during the summer of seventh grade, my sister and I were playing Barbies and had just set up our Barbie houses and had our dramatic story lines all figured out when one of my friends called to see what I was doing that day. I lied and told her I was just hanging out. It occurred to me at that moment that it wasn’t cool to say I was playing with my younger sister when all my friends were shopping at the mall, or going to the movies. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure it was my idea to play and I had to convince my sister, my younger sister, to play with me. I should have been too cool to play, but there was nothing that I wanted to do more. I felt sad once I “grew up” and wasn’t supposed to play anymore. I entered high school and just outgrew playing with my Barbies and Legos. I remember babysitting for two little girls who lived up the street and was so excited to learn that they had wild imaginations too and played just like my sister and me. Kids like us really existed!
So what happened? Did I turn into a Grinch who bah-humbugs all the time? Some days, I feel that way. Why can’t I just sit on the floor and sing songs and make silly faces at my one year old to engage him in playtime? Why can’t I look past the mess on the floor of the kids’ room and be grateful my three year old wants me to build her a Lego garage? Luckily, it seems that my daughter did inherit my imagination gene. I love watching her play with her toys and listen to her make things up as she plays. She really is like me in so many ways. And shouldn’t I be thrilled that my child is so good at independent play but still plays well with others? I just hope she (and her younger brother) stays forever young and doesn’t lose that innocence of letting one’s imagination run wild. And maybe it’s not too late for me. Perhaps the days of me enjoying playing with my children are still to come. There, I said it.
No comments:
Post a Comment