There are plenty of reasons to love playing with my kids—but now that it’s my full-time job, I admit to wishing I could phone it in every now and then. I don’t always hate playing with my 2 young sons, but when I do—here’s why:
Because every activity becomes a blood sport. Tag becomes tackling. Jumping on the trampoline becomes WWE. Catch becomes “let’s both throw balls at Mommy simultaneously to increase our odds of pummeling her in the face”. Toys actually designed for rough play are deadly weapons in their hands—stiff plastic light sabers become angry nightsticks to club each other’s knuckles with, and spongy, rubber-capped Nerf bullets become the future centerpiece of my vulnerable retinas. Maybe other boys their age are playing nice and trying NOT to blind, bludgeon, or concuss their mothers, but mine are clearly getting a head-start on off-loading their Freudian rage for being told to eat their broccoli and put pants on when company comes over.
Because the rules change more frequently than the password to access classified information at the Pentagon. It just took them 15 minutes to explain the intricate web of rules for a made-up game that sounds a hell of a lot like beating the sh&t out of each other. Now that I’ve started to play, the corrective feedback is so constant, I can hardly digest it all. A second ago, I was berated for failing to fall “dead” when one of them administered the apparent kill-shot from his invisible gun (after a good 10 minutes of fruitless “pew-pew” noises that seemed like the object of the game to me). But this time, when I do fall “dead” (on purpose, seizing the chance to momentarily tap-out of this nonsense), I’m suddenly brought back to life by the other son’s invisible set of cardiac jumper cables. Then I agree to play to 17 in soccer on the back deck, but mentally prepare for the end score to magically shift to 27 before it’s all said and done, due to a set of my son's verbal reasoning, so circuitous I need an algorithm to comprehend it—but which basically amounts to, “I’m not done with you yet, Mommy.” I’m all for imagination (or so I thought), but clearly my thinking is too lazy and linear for this sh*t.
Because my kids have worse sportsmanship than the Cobra Kai from Karate Kid. If there’s a leg to sweep, neither son will hesitate. The older one will mercilessly deny shot after shot from the younger one on our Little Tikes basketball goal until the younger one finally hauls off and bites older brother on the belly. The younger one will lie screaming on the floor like someone’s burning him alive every time he doesn’t make a shot on goal in soccer. The older one erupts into a barrage of conspiracy theories every time I beat him in Chutes and Ladders and incessantly serenades his father with a chorus of “you didn’t win” when whatever basketball team Dad’s bracket favors fails to make the Sweet Sixteen. I am the perpetual facilitator of goodwill and turn-taking for the world’s least receptive audience.
Because my kids’ collective attention-span is shorter than the middle finger I’d like to throw up every time they change their minds (or moods). Not five minutes after I finish conjuring my inner Kevin Costner in the baking heat of the direct afternoon sun to construct a modified Field of Dreams in the backyard pine straw, my sons abandon the game of tee-ball they begged me to play—in favor of anything else that requires maximum set-up and take-down on Mommy’s part. Like...lugging all the soccer equipment from the garage to the deck. Or...combing through the pine straw to find 3 tiny plastic golf balls for the two seconds of golf they’ll play before inevitably swatting each other with their plastic clubs. Or...unjamming the Spiderman helicopter launcher through a combination of muffled cursing, spiritual incantations, and a miracle of fine-motor skills—so that it can immediately jam again after 1-2 uses.
Because I know I’ll want this back someday--and hating it makes me feel like a sh&*ty, ungrateful mom. One day, time will turn these tables on me and I’ll be begging for even a sideways glance from either boy. Too soon, they’ll be escaping the embarrassment of my existence by burying themselves in video games or jumping in the moving vehicle of the first friend with a license who drives by. When that day comes, I’ll be lucky if they let me watch them play, much less invite me to join--especially once they realize that Mommy’s accuracy with the Frisbee is considered “deadly”, not in the figurative sense, but in the sense that innocent bystanders may suffer a disc to the throat because I have no aim whatsoever. I know that I’m lucky to share these precious moments and that scores of willing working parents would gladly change places with me any day.
To those parents, I sincerely apologize for everything you’re missing, but urge you to content yourself with the understanding that for every treasured triumph I’m privileged to partake in, there’s a full-fledged flailing cluster-f&*k of failure, thick enough to spread around to every adult and child involved in the series of soaring highs and abysmal lows that compose a single day of entertaining children under five.
So enjoy that work lunch and the soothing stillness of that solitary commute. Because back at home we’re playing a made-up game called “Catch The Pig” and Mommy’s about to get leveled.
Because every activity becomes a blood sport. Tag becomes tackling. Jumping on the trampoline becomes WWE. Catch becomes “let’s both throw balls at Mommy simultaneously to increase our odds of pummeling her in the face”. Toys actually designed for rough play are deadly weapons in their hands—stiff plastic light sabers become angry nightsticks to club each other’s knuckles with, and spongy, rubber-capped Nerf bullets become the future centerpiece of my vulnerable retinas. Maybe other boys their age are playing nice and trying NOT to blind, bludgeon, or concuss their mothers, but mine are clearly getting a head-start on off-loading their Freudian rage for being told to eat their broccoli and put pants on when company comes over.
Because the rules change more frequently than the password to access classified information at the Pentagon. It just took them 15 minutes to explain the intricate web of rules for a made-up game that sounds a hell of a lot like beating the sh&t out of each other. Now that I’ve started to play, the corrective feedback is so constant, I can hardly digest it all. A second ago, I was berated for failing to fall “dead” when one of them administered the apparent kill-shot from his invisible gun (after a good 10 minutes of fruitless “pew-pew” noises that seemed like the object of the game to me). But this time, when I do fall “dead” (on purpose, seizing the chance to momentarily tap-out of this nonsense), I’m suddenly brought back to life by the other son’s invisible set of cardiac jumper cables. Then I agree to play to 17 in soccer on the back deck, but mentally prepare for the end score to magically shift to 27 before it’s all said and done, due to a set of my son's verbal reasoning, so circuitous I need an algorithm to comprehend it—but which basically amounts to, “I’m not done with you yet, Mommy.” I’m all for imagination (or so I thought), but clearly my thinking is too lazy and linear for this sh*t.
Because my kids have worse sportsmanship than the Cobra Kai from Karate Kid. If there’s a leg to sweep, neither son will hesitate. The older one will mercilessly deny shot after shot from the younger one on our Little Tikes basketball goal until the younger one finally hauls off and bites older brother on the belly. The younger one will lie screaming on the floor like someone’s burning him alive every time he doesn’t make a shot on goal in soccer. The older one erupts into a barrage of conspiracy theories every time I beat him in Chutes and Ladders and incessantly serenades his father with a chorus of “you didn’t win” when whatever basketball team Dad’s bracket favors fails to make the Sweet Sixteen. I am the perpetual facilitator of goodwill and turn-taking for the world’s least receptive audience.
Because my kids’ collective attention-span is shorter than the middle finger I’d like to throw up every time they change their minds (or moods). Not five minutes after I finish conjuring my inner Kevin Costner in the baking heat of the direct afternoon sun to construct a modified Field of Dreams in the backyard pine straw, my sons abandon the game of tee-ball they begged me to play—in favor of anything else that requires maximum set-up and take-down on Mommy’s part. Like...lugging all the soccer equipment from the garage to the deck. Or...combing through the pine straw to find 3 tiny plastic golf balls for the two seconds of golf they’ll play before inevitably swatting each other with their plastic clubs. Or...unjamming the Spiderman helicopter launcher through a combination of muffled cursing, spiritual incantations, and a miracle of fine-motor skills—so that it can immediately jam again after 1-2 uses.
Because I know I’ll want this back someday--and hating it makes me feel like a sh&*ty, ungrateful mom. One day, time will turn these tables on me and I’ll be begging for even a sideways glance from either boy. Too soon, they’ll be escaping the embarrassment of my existence by burying themselves in video games or jumping in the moving vehicle of the first friend with a license who drives by. When that day comes, I’ll be lucky if they let me watch them play, much less invite me to join--especially once they realize that Mommy’s accuracy with the Frisbee is considered “deadly”, not in the figurative sense, but in the sense that innocent bystanders may suffer a disc to the throat because I have no aim whatsoever. I know that I’m lucky to share these precious moments and that scores of willing working parents would gladly change places with me any day.
To those parents, I sincerely apologize for everything you’re missing, but urge you to content yourself with the understanding that for every treasured triumph I’m privileged to partake in, there’s a full-fledged flailing cluster-f&*k of failure, thick enough to spread around to every adult and child involved in the series of soaring highs and abysmal lows that compose a single day of entertaining children under five.
So enjoy that work lunch and the soothing stillness of that solitary commute. Because back at home we’re playing a made-up game called “Catch The Pig” and Mommy’s about to get leveled.
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