Picture the quintessential mom. She’s not too young or too old, and her two adorable children are perfectly spaced just a few years apart. She’s stylish yet comfortable, effortlessly navigating the morning chaos while her kids, well-groomed and cheerful, head off to school (on time, no less!). Inside their monogrammed backpacks, healthy lunches await, and later, she’ll whisk them off to soccer practice in her shiny SUV.
At home, this mom continues to dazzle. She crafts, dons various roles like princess or doctor as her children request, and builds intricate Lego structures with ease. Her cheerful demeanor never falters, and frustration is a foreign concept. After serving up a homemade dinner, she helps with homework and reads bedtime stories, tucking her kids in lovingly. Later, you might find her baking muffins from scratch while humming a catchy tune. Her kitchen? Always spotless, despite the flurry of cooking.
This mom is truly a mythical creature.
We all embody aspects of this ideal, and many of us excel in several areas. However, the notion of a “perfect mom” is a myth — a unicorn that simply doesn’t exist. Each of us experiences motherhood differently, often under a cloud of judgment yet bound by a sense of camaraderie. Moms share confessions in hushed tones at the playground, seeking solace in their imperfections. “My kids haven’t bathed in three days,” one admits. “Mine dined on fast food twice this week,” another chimes in. “I can’t stand that show!” they all laugh. It’s a normal occurrence, and that’s perfectly okay. No mother is flawless; we reassure one another. What truly matters is the love we have for our children — everything else is just details.
Despite the warmth of this supportive circle, there’s one truth I struggle to voice: I’m not great at playing with my kids. In fact, I dread it; I don’t enjoy it at all.
Let me clarify.
I genuinely love spending quality time with my children. We visit parks, engage in cooking and baking, and dive into countless adventures. Whether hiking, berry picking, or exploring museums, our time together is filled with joy. I cherish every moment, even when they drive me to the brink of madness, because they mean the world to me.
But when it comes to playtime? I’m not a fan.
Sitting on the floor playing with dolls or cars isn’t my idea of fun. Building with Lego holds little appeal for me. I might agree to be Mama Leopard during a game of Wild Kratts, but I’ll quickly mention that Mama Leopard can’t crawl around because she’s busy prepping dinner or tackling the never-ending laundry. Honestly, I just don’t want to pretend to be a leopard.
I adore watching my kids dive into their imaginative games, and I’m fascinated by their intricate Magnatile designs. I’m happy to help them with craft supplies whenever they ask, but please don’t make me join in — that feels like a chore I’d rather avoid.
Does this make me an awful mother? Probably not. But it does leave me feeling inadequate.
I’m not sure why I struggle with playtime. I’m a creative person with a vivid imagination, just like my kids, and I love art and don’t hesitate to sing or dance. Yet, I can’t seem to embrace the idea of crawling around on all fours pretending to be a snow leopard. Maybe it’s because I often feel overwhelmed by household duties or fatigue. Or perhaps it’s because I’m not naturally silly and find it hard to slip into a childlike state of play. If my kids suggest a board game, I’m all in — but toss me into a room full of Barbies, and I’m lost.
A strange sense of shame lingers around my ineptitude in this area, even though I’m a good mom by most standards. My kids are well-loved, cared for, and undeniably happy. They get plenty of attention and affection, and I encourage their playtime, even if I don’t engage directly. I worry that others might view me as lazy or uncaring.
Yet, my kids persistently ask me to join in. Clearly, I haven’t taught them to take a hint!
So, I occasionally concede and step into the role of Mama Leopard or The Wizard Queen, giving it a half-hearted attempt before retreating to my computer or the laundry room. And you know what? They continue to play and have a blast without me. They bond, share laughter, and create their own fun. Eventually, one of them will request a snack, and by that time, they’re completely unfazed by my absence. Their happiness is contagious, and so is mine — just with a sprinkle of guilt.
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In summary, while I might not excel at traditional forms of play, my love for my kids remains unwavering. We find joy in many other activities, and that’s what truly matters.