I don't want to play

Last updated: 29/06/2016 16:20 by DaisyWilson to DaisyWilson's Blog
Filed under: MummyBloggers
 
Parenthood teaches us to experience multiple opposing emotions on a daily basis at dangerously high levels.
 
Take fear; fear comes into its own once you become a parent.
 
Who else wakes up seven times an hour to check on the breathing of a perfectly healthy human other than a new parent? Who else can spend an hour in intense conversation on the terror of  choking hazards, on the danger of the un-sliced grape, other than a group of parents?
 
Joy is another prominent emotional feature in the landscape of parenthood.
 
From that over-powering rush of love endorphins released after the arrival of a newborn, to the insane contentment at witnessing their small triumphs, to the lump in the throat thrill of happiness at the warbly out-of-tune school concert version of Jingle Bells.
 
Parenting also provides Olympian guilt training until you're capable of feeling equally guilty for opposite actions; buy child an ice-cream - guilt. Refuse to buy child ice-cream - guilt.
 
Each December some parents take guilt so far they go into debt in order to  provide the Christmas they can't afford for their children.
 
 
Today, my guilt stems from trying to get out of playing with the nearly four-year-old. She's having an imaginative growth spurt, loving getting those tiny toy bears and rabbits chatting to each other as they drive around in Barbie's sports car.
 
On the plus, this is great for her brain. On the down-side, I am forced to participate, which is bad for my brain. Kneeling on the floor, dinosaur in one hand, unicorn in the other, I play brother and father going to the shops with her mother bear and sister princess.
 
I hate playing. And that makes me feel terrible. Feel guilty.
 
 
Which reminds me of all the other childhood staples that bore me to tears: playgrounds, bubbles, Ludo... And I feel even guiltier, wonder if I'm fit to be a mother, is there is any worse mother in the whole world... before I am reprimanded for losing focus in my role as daddy pig. I give it some gusto, Oscar winning angry pig, then suggest a visit to the park.
 
She isn't sure, wants to keep on with the game. My knees hurt. I bribe her with the offer of an ice-cream and maybe even bubbles. She agrees. I feel guilty. I'm good at that. I've been trained.
 
Daisy Wilson is a freelance writer who lives and works in West Cork. Mum to an almost-teenager and a toddler who is striding through the terrible twos with a glint in her eye, life is noisy, fun and covered in fingerprint marks.
 
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