Updated: Feb. 8, 2021
Originally Published: April 6, 2014
Six little words that can feel like a heavy weight on your chest.
“Mom, will you play with me?”
My daughter, just turned four and newly enrolled in kindergarten, had just come home for a half-day. I had picked her up and now faced a long three hours before picking up her little brother. After a quick lunch, she looked up at me with her big eyes and asked those six words.
Some may think I’m a terrible parent for admitting this, but I can’t help but cringe when I hear that request. I detest playing with my kids. Hand me a Barbie doll, and I could dress and undress it for hours. Give me a good book, and I’ll read it aloud to anyone who will listen. Hand me a set of Legos, and I’ll craft something impressive. But when it comes to “playing,” I find it utterly unenjoyable.
“Pretend it’s the circus, but I’m not a clown. Pretend I’m a butterfly. Okay, Mom?” my daughter said excitedly.
“Alright,” I replied, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
“You have to say, ‘Here comes the butterfly,’” she instructed.
“Okay, here comes the butterfly,” I said, only to be met with her disapproval.
“No, Mom, you can’t say it yet. I’m not ready,” she responded, rushing off to her playroom, rummaging through dress-up clothes.
Finally, she called out, “I’m ready!”
“Here comes the butterfly,” I exclaimed. Out she twirled, wearing her wings, before darting back into the other room.
“Now, pretend this is a show, and I’m a Barbie bride girl, and this is my wedding,” she declared.
“Alright,” I said, bracing myself for the next round.
“You have to say ‘here comes Barbie bride girl,’” she repeated.
“Here comes Barbie bride girl,” I complied, but the same cycle continued.
I started to realize that “playing” involved little more than her dictating the scenario. I was merely a voice in her imaginative world, repeating what she told me rather than co-creating anything.
To escape, I resorted to desperate measures. “I need to use the bathroom.” “I’ll just make a cup of coffee.” “Oh, is that the doorbell?” The ultimate excuse? “I’m just going to check my email,” which is almost as good as suggesting, “How about we watch TV instead?”
Deep down, I know these moments are fleeting. Soon, my daughters will outgrow the desire to play with me, and I’ll likely lament my reluctance to engage fully during their childhood. After all, I already carry a load of mom guilt, so what’s a bit more?
Despite my struggles, I truly cherish the performances they put on. They dance, sing, and twirl with such joy, and I love being the audience, cheering them on. I can clap and take photos without the pressure of being part of the act, and I will genuinely miss those moments when they become self-conscious and no longer seek the spotlight.
However, imaginative play that offers no real opportunity for my own creativity can be frustrating. Being given orders by a four-year-old is no picnic, and I will continue to dread those six fateful words, “Mom, will you play with me?”
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