I don’t like to play with my kids. I daresay I’m not a huge fan of playing or kids in general. I know.
I KNOW. *shrugs*
I released that tidbit recently to some person who runs in my circles (I don’t remember who it was) and she stared at me while crickets chirped.
“Why did you have so many kids?” She exclaimed with horror dripping from her bright eyes. “And why do you homeschool?”
My face screwed up into a rumpled ball and my left eyelid twitched as I considered this.
“Well, scratch that. I like my own kids, I guess.”
I don’t like blocks and legos and puzzles. Crafts cause all my orifices to emit foul-smelling bodily fluids. I don’t like dressing dolls. I have Carpal Tunnel and it’s like digging a fork into my buttcheek when I try to squeeze a rubbery, shiny Barbie-girdle-dress onto a gummy, malleable mannequin with way better abs than mine.
Wait. Who are we kidding here? I have NO abs. Those muscles were eaten by my twins in utero.
I resent the fact that Barbie’s underwear are stamped on like she has no genitals. And that her legs are so long and her waist so minuscule that if she were a real human, her boobs and backbone and brain would implode into her intestines and ooze out her butt, leaving behind a puddle of highlights, implants and blindingly white teeth.
I’d rather lick my boys’ toenails, one by one than play Candyland or Uno. Cards Against Humanity…now that’s a different story. Anyhoo…
Go to a park and let them scale the monkey bars with no shoes on while I crack out on my latest literary fiction? Yes, please.
You see, I spend pretty much 24 hours day with my kids. I wake them up, I feed them full, hearty breakfasts, assign them schoolwork and chores, remind them to wear deodorant and practice violin. I proofread their papers, quiz them on their vocab words and ask if they pooped today. I go over tomorrow’s activities, remind them to brush their teeth, call them all to scripture study and send them off to bed with a hug and a prayer.
I’m always there.
I clean up the puzzles and the Lincoln Logs and Legos. I wipe their butts and noses and give them medicine. I hold their hair when they barf and talk to them at midnight when they have a boy problem or a mean-girl waiting in the wings to rip out their hair and confidence. I read them night time stories, sing their sleepy songs and plan their curricula for the next school year. I cook food every.single.day and it’s usually healthy. Usually.
I buy them craft supplies, guys. What spells LOVE better than GLITTER?!
I’m always there.
(Except when I have a doctor’s appointment which is like a mini vacation, but let’s not split hairs here)
So when I don’t want to chase them down the slide or build a Harry Potter Hogwart Lego Castle which has exactly 17,459 pieces or hold that American Girl clamped between my knees and try to wrestle a French braid into her luscious hair or commit to another sport or birthday party or playdate, you can let me off the hook.
When I’d rather plan the menu for their birthday party or order supplies for their rad Halloween costumes or chip their poop off the toilet whilst they play Candyland together, you can save the judgement – maybe for someone who doesn’t feed their kids or drops them off at McDonald’s and leaves? Or throws them off a bridge into a river? Or forgets the little guys at a funeral home? I don’t know.
I’m pretty sure when God was creating me, he said, “Let’s make this one…Ghetto 80s Mom.”
“She shall lock her kids outside with popcicles and tell them not to return unless someone is bleeding. She’ll laugh hysterically when a goat horns them to ground or they crash their bike into a gate and regale them with tales of having a pager for communication in high school and how she rode her bike 5 miles – uphill both ways – to cheerleading practice every day, all summer and had to pilfer quarters in the gutter to buy a meatball sub for lunch.
She’ll be terrified of glitter and board games and loathe kids’ activities that require her participation. She will only want to read historical fiction and eat carbs and won’t like being touched more than 500 times per day. And she won’t feel bad about it one bit…
…wait. Just kidding. We’ll bequeath hellacious Mom-Guilt upon her just like all the rest.”
Things I’d rather do than play with my kids:
1. Read them books
2. Buy them books
3. Listen to audiobooks with them when we’re trapped in the van together
4. Take them one at a time to pick out clothes
5. Teach them how to scour Amazon and Ebay to find the best price for the thing they want
6. Watch movies (especially if they’re holiday themed)
7. Take them on a date with Daddy for lunch
8. Do over-the-top decorations for every holiday
9. Teach them the difference between there, their and they’re
10. Buy them the internet so they can study the world
11. Teach them social media etiquette
12. Buy them musical instruments, pay for lessons and pretend like I know what they’re learning when I critique their performances (i.e. see Tiger Mom)
13. Go on a walk around the farm
14. Have lively discussions about sex, religion, politics and money
15. Do Zumba with them in the living room or teach them weird old dance moves from the 90s which will simultaneously impress and horrify them
16. Teach them to meditate and identify their emotions
17. Show them how exciting history is by watching documentaries on Netflix
18. Let them watch me cook and teach them not to stir anything with flour for very long or else they will create a rubber hockey puck instead of a biscuit (I don’t like watching kids in the kitchen. It’s like watching a cat make a salad. BUT…humans have these incredible things called mirror neurons. We literally know how to do some things just because we saw someone else do them so…)
19. Let them cook things while I’m not watching
20. Indoctrinate them with the joy of breastfeeding (I made them watch me tandem breastfeed their brothers for two years straight…mirror neurons, ya’ll, mirror neurons)
21. Buy them supplies to make slime, paint their faces and crimp their hair
And the answer to why I had so many kids?
I like newborns. I liked breastfeeding and kissing tiny infant lips and smelling their milky breath. I never learned how to cook a meal for less than 12 people and shockingly, I have a strange affection for sweaty little boys with black hands and smelly necks. I adore lording my ability to cook a whole, entire human over my husband and dismissing his useless nipples.
I enjoy seeing my kids create music and make friends and learn life lessons. I like watching a 6 year old learn the rule for herself of “we wear a coat when it’s 30 degrees outside, like Mommy said”. I like buying books and massive amounts of plasticware and planning a person’s education. I love little feet on the cold tile in the morning.
Did I mention I like buying books?
Most of all, I like it when kids have someone to play with and a means to keep themselves entertained. Like bringing in the puppy pens and making a prison cell with a bed so they can watch movies from their cage on a rainy day. Together. Without my interference.
I praise the Lord the last two came in a litter. I’ll never have to play Minecraft with a lone 7 year old boy.
