As if there weren’t enough reasons for me to wallow in self-doubt as a mother already! As if the burden of mama-guilt wasn’t already heavy enough! Now, I have to publicly admit to another thing I’m shit at: playing.
When it comes to shoving shapes in
holes orificies, or building wonky towers with blocks, or balancing plastic shit on my head while dancing to ‘Let It Go’, I can muster about fifteen or twenty minutes of vaguely enthusiastic play before I find myself desperate, absolutely itching, to do the laundry. I’d rather clean a toilet obliterated by my husband after a night of beer and biryani with my ponytail and chew it clean than read ‘Peppa Pig Goes On Holiday’ for the third time in a row.
Does this make me a terrible person? It doesn’t mean that I don’t do it. Of course, when my Small asks me, with those big, big blue eyes and that little rosebud mouth all coloured-up with her pretty smile, to read ‘Peppa Pig Fucks Off To Faliraki’ for the third time in a row, I do it and I even pull off a few vaguely acceptable voices but *whispers* I’m really bored doing it.
I know it’s awesome that with every word I read her brain is exploding in a shower of synaptic connections and the time I spend interacting with her is crucial to building up lifelong bonds that neither time, terrible behaviour or teenage years
will should be able to break (though Lord knows they’ll be tested). The problem is, I feel like I should enjoy it, relish it, look forward to it? Instead I’m counting down the minutes until I can saunter off to aforementioned laundry with minimal mama-guilt.
Before I go on about how boring I find my Small, I should qualify that this doesn’t apply to the fun stuff. Going out and about with her doesn’t bore me silly. I love dancing in the garden, going to the park, chaperoning her through various swimming and music lessons. I can get on board with the joy of bubbles. I love having girly lunches with her…I love spending time with her. I just hate those inevitable times when we are in the house with nothing but the toy box to turn to. I hate the books and the blocks and the Play-doh and the painting and the dollies and the tambourines. I especially hate the tambourines.
Of course, my husband is awesome at the play thing. I don’t know whether he finds it mind-numbingly boring as well but does it for hours on end out of a selfless and unconditional love for our daughter (thank God she has one functioning parent) or whether he genuinely enjoys it (in which case I’m concerned he’s totes cray-cray) but he does it. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but feel a bit shit and wonder whether I should be turning my mother card in soon.
In the grand scheme of things, these painful play times make up a small percentage of our time together and maybe I need to accept that that particular part of parenting is just not my forte…you can’t be awesome at everything, right? Plus, there’s a lot to be said for giving Smalls the skills for independent play and perhaps that’s my role in this crazy, rollercoaster ride they call parenting.
Either way, I’m feeling the guilt.
Bored in Blog-land.