I have grandiose plans. Chew all the coolest bits of Pinterest up and spit them out, and that's only a fraction of how rad the room looks in my mind. Martha Stewart would bow to me. Truth time? It will probably look more like a 2nd grade boy designed it when I'm done. That's reality's cruel way of reminding me I don't have a crafty bone in my body. Pinterest and I never even made it through our 1st date before breaking up for that very reason. That's neither here nor there. The point is the new fancy schmancy feng shui craft room will corral their markerspaintscrapbookjunkityjunk in one place and keep it off my kitchen table forever (because if I have to pick one more crayon out of my dustpan pile after I rescue it from under the table leg, sohelpme).
So we're ridding the playroom of stuff. All stuff, but mostly toy stuff. And as I sort toys and toss them into the appropriate bin (trash, megatrash or donate), I am struck by how few of those toys I've ever laid hands on. Might have something to do with the fact that I stopped playing with my kids long ago.
True story.
Tea parties gave me hives. Mommy, you are the baby, no kitty, no baby kitty and you have to meow, wait cry, well kinda coooo and then we will give you tea but you have to wait for your tea until we dress and undress and redress every stuffed animal ever manufactured in the state of Idaho and prep them for the tea that they can't actually drink unless Claire pries open their sewed-shut mouths and drenches them with it and, wait, Mommy, you can't be sleeping because the kitty is sleeping and you are not the kitty, wait are you the kitty?
I'd take a repeated ride on a sliver-filled water slide over that nonsense.
Oh, I'd play pretend. Nothing less than Oscar worthy performances, if say, Oscars were given out to Paris Hilton and the like with equal acting chops. For years I participated in fashion shows and make-believe schools and was an obedient student/baby/neighbor/goat during school/circus/daycare/zoo time. And for years I'd want to claw my eyes out, which I never did because then I wouldn't be able to watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Five minutes. That was always my goal. If I could hit the 5 minute mark without wanting to hurl myself off a bridge, I'd pat myself on the back. Job well done mama.
Because any more than that and I'd lose it. I was already lacking in the sleep department, the ugly under eye bags were beyond the help of makeup. I was malnourished (not to be confused with undernourished), living on discarded pb&j crusts and a scoopful of cold, bottom of the barrel mac and cheese. And I was so deprived of adult interaction that I was willing to start uncomfortably long conversations with grocery store cashiers, bank tellers and ring-your-doorbell-incessantly-during-naptime solicitors just to talk to someone, anyone, over the age of 4.
What I didn't need was a nails-on-chalkboard pretend session. So I clocked in, did my time and clocked out. My children gained nothing from it, and I hated every last second of it.
I took a step back and watched them play. Alone. They'd bounce ideas off one another without having to fight the silly reasoning of an adult, the party-crashing realist. Well sure the panda could birth an entire family of human princesses and they could all live happily underwater without the use of a breathing apparatus, where electricity totally did not fry them dead in their state-of-the-art under the sea elevator. Because when you're young and awesome, absolutely anything is possible. And your pint-size playmates have got your back every time. Because that's how kids' imaginations work. Fascinating tiny human brains at work.
But then I'd come in, all adultish, and crash the party with my logic. And my daughters would sense my magical push back and begin to defer to me. All far-fetched ideas vanished in a poof of pixie dust. Pandas birthed pandas and under the sea adventures had scuba gear and little girls steered clear of all electrical wires, underwater or otherwise.
I was a make-believe crusher. So I stopped playing with them.
And they played on.
And they played better.
They didn't need me to be a kittybaby, they just needed my time. And since I was no longer offering that in the form of tortured tea parties, I offered it up in other ways. Completely selfish ways.
I love reading to my children. And so we read for hours. I love playing board games with them, so an afternoon of Candyland and Trouble became the norm. I love riding bikes, so we'd pile on our respective bikes and hit the trails. I was with them, so they were happy. I wasn't faking it through endless dress-up games, so I was happy.
I hate to color, so I didn't color. They did. I hate playing any form of make-believe, so I didn't play make-believe. They did. I hate playing play dough, so I didn't play play dough. They did. I hate playing in the sandbox, so I didn't play in the sand box. They spent hours building sandcastles and mud muffins. Without me.
As a parent, I think we often get caught up in the notion that to be a good parent we have to be an everything parent. We are better parents when we occasionally leave them to their own devices (although the tornado aftermath of that statement threatens to bury its truth). We are better parents when we stop being constantly present. We are better parents when we include our children in activities we enjoy and are passionate about, but not always the other way around.
I'm not saying stop attending their choreographed performance to "Don't Stop Believing" in your living room. I am saying stop choreographing said performances (unless of course you live to choreograph, in which case, that's the point. So shuffle ball step away. Wait? That's tap, not dance. Or is tap, dance? Clearly, Julliard will not be calling anytime soon, ahem, ever). Conveying that what is important to them is important to you does not always require participation.
Leave them alone and they will play and create and invent and imagine away. Without you. And you can swoop in on your terms. I promise they will still feel loved and you will never have to sip another drop of tea. Because let's be honest, one lump or twelve, it's always a bitter cup to swallow.
