“Mama, can you play with me?”
My default response to this used to be no. It was almost defensive. I was exhausted. I wanted a break. I felt like I’d already spent my day serving their every human need (snacks) and then, with bedtime on the horizon, another demand. Another test to see if I’d get my gold sticker for the day.
It’s possible these feelings were partially governed by some form of postpartum anxiety or depression. It might have also just been introverted mothering with small children. It’s hard to say.
Thankfully, that time has passed, and I don’t mean it just cleared up like sunshine after a gentle rain. I mean there was therapy, drugs, reiki, shamans, coaching, gluten-free muffins, Shefali Tsabary, friends. I enabled a constant deluge to keep my bucket from running dry.
It is hard work and, for anyone who’s in it, I feel you. You are not alone and it will get better.
There are still times when I hear those words and breathe a brief, internal sigh of resistance. My To Do list runs through my head like a ticker tape of unachieved goals, now with a roadblock of guilt in its way.
Then, I let the other part of my brain remind me of a few things:
It may take some time to get into it, but playing with kids can be hilarious and fun, especially if you let loose and bend the rules a little bit (like throwing a ball—gently—in the house). I liken it to teaching them about risk, something my children regularly eschew.
Play is how they work through some of their own heavy shit. It’s not like you’re putting your six-year-old on an elliptical to sweat out after a bad day on the playground.
It doesn’t have to be forever. I can wrestle them into a tickle fight for ten minutes and everyone comes away marginally happier. I’m not saying they’re completely satisfied but it’s enough to get you through dinner.
Unless it’s an impending work deadline, you’re late for swimming, or dinner is spewing smoke from the oven (not uncommon), there are few things that can’t wait out a few rounds of hide and seek.
Having said all this, I can still be kind of lazy and opinionated about it. I’ve mentioned this before, but I am not a fan of playing Paw Patrol, my pelvic floor does not like jumping, and every part of me hates being cold. So, while I may be willing to put on an inflatable dinosaur suit to battle the nerf gun army, I am less willing to wrestle Skye into her helicopter or drag a sled to a toboggan hill. I know I *should* and, of course, I do. It’s just not my bag.
And so, I put my To Do list on hold, where it lives permanently, and ask the big question.
“What do you want to play, buddy?”
“Frisbee.”
(It’s the middle of winter. Nevermind the fact he can’t throw a frisbee.)
“In the house?”
“Yeah.”
This is where my tolerance for risk meets a dead end. We settle on “medium-strength” tossing of the ball that bounces in weird directions and hope the television survives.