Updated: Feb. 8, 2021
Originally Published: April 6, 2014
There are six little words that can make any parent tremble: “Mom, will you play with me?”
My daughter, Bouncy, who just turned four and recently started preschool, asked me this as I picked her up one afternoon. With a few hours to kill before we needed to fetch her sister from school, she looked up at me with her big, hopeful eyes, and I felt a familiar wave of dread wash over me.
I know some might judge me and label me a bad parent, but I’m being honest when I say I absolutely dread the idea of playing. Hand me a pile of Legos and I can build something fantastic. Give me a book, and I’ll happily read it aloud to anyone who will listen. But “playing”? I find that to be a whole different story.
“Let’s pretend it’s a circus, but I’m not a clown. I’m a butterfly, okay, Mom?” Bouncy said with excitement.
“Sure!” I replied, attempting enthusiasm.
“You have to say, ‘Here comes the butterfly,’” she instructed.
“Alright, here comes the butterfly!” I chimed.
“No, you can’t say it yet. I’m not ready!” She dashed off to her dress-up box, creating a whirlwind of costumes. “Now I’m ready!”
“Here comes the butterfly!” I called out. She twirled, showing off her wings, then promptly returned to the playroom.
Next, she announced, “Now pretend this is my wedding, and I’m a Barbie bride!”
“Okay!”
“You have to say, ‘Here comes Barbie bride girl,’” she directed.
“Here comes Barbie bride girl!” I said, only to hear her voice from the other room.
“Not yet, Mom. I’m still getting ready!”
It became clear that “playing” meant me following her lead without any real input. I found myself searching for excuses to escape: “I need to check on dinner,” or “Oh, is that the doorbell?” The worst was when I pretended to check my email, which felt slightly less guilty than suggesting we watch TV instead.
I realize that soon enough, my daughters will grow up and won’t want to play with me at all. I’ll likely regret not participating more in their imaginative games when they were little, but hey, what’s one more layer of mom guilt, right?
I do enjoy the performances they put on, filled with dancing and singing. I love being their audience—clapping and cheering them on—because it allows me to be supportive without the pressure of being part of the act. I’ll genuinely miss those moments when they become too self-conscious to perform.
However, the kind of imaginative play where I am merely a voice and not a participant is exhausting. Being bossed around by a four-year-old doesn’t bring me joy, and so I’ll continue to cringe at those six little words: “Mom, will you play with me?”
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In summary, while I may not relish playtime with my kids, I cherish the moments of joy their performances bring. Balancing the demands of parenting and personal preferences can be tough, but it’s all part of the journey.