I Don’t Play With My Kids: Wild and Free

“Mama will you play with me?” My six year old daughter has been asking me this question for the last three years, since I stopped “playing” with her toward the end of her toddlerhood. I taught her to play, I encouraged her imagination, I provided her with all the necessary resources, and then I let her go. She’s excellent at playing by herself, and my husband and brother play with her a lot. The truth is, I don’t play with my kids at home much at all.

Mostly Stay at Home Work at Home Mom

In my house I have one million trillion bajillion (I’m sure that’s a number) things to do. I cook, I clean, I do laundry, I plan, I budget, I pack, I unpack. You name it. And that’s just for my household. On top of all that I work mostly from home. I write, I do some light bookkeeping, I coach, and I network. I’m building a business from the ground up. I don’t play with my kids.

Then, when I’m not taking care of my house or my children or my business, I’m taking care of myself.

I’m a big proponent of self care. So I make time for bubble baths and reading and sitting down with coffee or wine to zone out in front of Netflix. I also do yoga and run. I meditate and journal.

I’ve got a lot going on.

I Don’t Want To

And the bottom line is, I don’t want to play with my kids. I just don’t want to. I don’t enjoy Legos or dolls. I don’t like building with blocks or playing with Play Dough.

I enjoy coloring, so I’ll do that sometimes.

But mostly, it is my husband and brother who do the kid toy stuff.

And I don’t feel guilty even one bit.

I spend a ton of time reading and writing, snuggling and visiting, having dance parties and karaoke festivals with my kids.

I just don’t do traditional “play.”

Get Out

But then we get outside and something changes.

When we leave the house I really have no other duties to attend to. So I run and jump, slide and swing.

Outside all my kids have to do is ask, and I’ll join the fray.

Today, as I sit writing this, my hair still hasn’t fully dried, my bra is still damp against my skin, and I think I added even more freckles to my head to toe coverage.

We went to a local splash pad to meet with our fellow homeschoolers, and the water came on.

Celaya, my oldest, of course jumped right in with her friends. Like I said, she’s great at finding or making fun.

But Matilda, my eighteen month old, is still learning to make her own fun, and still a bit trepidatious on the splash pads.

She skirted around the spray.

She stomped a bit in the puddles.

She played with some buckets a bit, filling them up and emptying them.

I had a feeling things might go this way, so I wore my very thin black tank top shorts jumper. I knew it would dry quickly.

I had already showered, done my makeup, and done my hair for the day. I looked pretty cute, and quite put together.

Not For Long

“Matilda! Matilda!” I called from a few feet away. “Matilda! Come splash with Mama!”

And I ran through the spray, ducking under the big rainbow bars that shot water down toward the ground.

I thought I would get lightly splashed.

I got drenched.

Drenched.

I ran through, under the spray, came out the other side, looked at my toddler through the spray and yelled like Tarzan “ahhhhh!”

And, just as I had hoped, she copied me.

And then we did it again and again and again.

Then my six year old ran over and joined us.

At one point, we ran through the spray together, holding hands.

“This is my joy. This is the height of my joy.” I thought to myself.

But no, I don’t play with my kids.

I Don’t Play With My Kids

I have many blissful moments in life. Many many many. Too many to name.

My most blissful moments with my kids are spent when we are fully engaged, inside or outside, focused on one another, and having fun.

And because it is so easy to have fun outside, there are so many things to do outside that allow for full engagement, I find my bliss in these moments quite often.

No, I don’t “play” with my kids.

You are not likely to find me with Lincoln Logs or My Little Ponies.

But you will find me in the bathtub with both my kids, squirting each other in the faces with bath toys, running naked through the house, me chasing them to put lotion and jammies on, spraying water from the hose on the patio, or getting soaked on a splash pad.

You will find me in the surf and sand, dumping buckets of water into holes in the ground, running to catch waves, and splashing through creek beds in the mountains.

I’m that mom.

I was that little girl. I was that big sister. I am that mom. And I will probably be that grandma someday.

Making Memories

We sat down after getting soaked, resting on a grassy hillside in the sun to dry off, my tying my soaked hair up into a ballerina bun. I ate my salad while the girls ate their packed lunches.

“These are memories. These are the things they’ll remember.”

They won’t remember me as the mom who needed to stay dry because she had to go to work later (I did).

They won’t remember me as the mom who refused to climb the tree or jump over boulders.

They won’t remember me as the mom off to the side.

Sure, they’ll remember that I was always working at home, that I was ever at my desk or in the kitchen, ever with a laundry basket in my arms.

But they will also remember that I dropped everything for a dance party.

That I screamed and squealed with them from one end of the house to the other, lifting them into the air, throwing them over my shoulder, launching them onto my springy mattress and tickling them to elicit the sound of delighted giggles.

That I ran through the spray, that I swam in the ocean, that I jumped in the lake, that I got my face dirty and my hair natty.

That I Danced Barefoot in the Rain

My wild and free children will remember their mother was wild and free.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When it was time to go, our wagon was packed, Celaya was picking up the last of her things, reluctant to leave, as always.

“Celaya!” I called over to her. She looked up, and I pointed to the other side of the park.

“That’s an ice cream truck over there.” I said as I got closer to her. I handed her three bucks and said, “Go get yourself something and let’s get outta here.”

She did.

And we did.