White Flag

Do you know what I find most difficult about parenthood?

More than tantrums or the fact that almost every shirt I own is stained with breastmilk or that my husband and I seldom get to do anything together but sit on our LoveSack and watch the Eagles almost beat the Patriots?

More difficult, even, than the sleepless nights?

It has to do with coming out from hiding, popping my head up from behind the couch, lifting my arms and raising the white flag, and waving it.

It has to do with surrender.

At the park today with one of the really cool moms I occasionally hang out with, we were discussing this very thing, and how difficult it was for us to give in to our children. Not 'giving in' in the sense we normally think of in regards to children. No...this 'giving in' has every thing to do with our finding it difficult to put aside our own desires and focus on our children.

Just like with food and drink, moderation comes into play in motherhood too. I know that no one expects me to spend every waking moment thinking of and acting out ways to enrich my children's lives. I realize that my own desires, my own long-term goal of becoming a nurse and short-term goal of actually going to the bathroom without an audience, for instance, are worthy of time and energy.

But why is it that I find play with my children so hard? The honest truth is that I'd rather read the fiction from my latest New Yorker while they play around me. I'd rather sip a cup of honeyed Red Rose tea in the waning light of the afternoon, watching them, smiling at them, listening to their words, and engaging with them, but all from the comfort of a cushioned wicker chair in the playroom. I'd rather be there than on the floor.

Sometimes, when one of them takes my adult hand and tries to fold in within their own soft, little hand, and pull me off to get me involved, I have to fight an urge to pull away. And I wonder, in the way that people do who've been to numerous mental health experts over the years, whether this has a reason. Is it my lazy personality? Is it boredom coming from the monotony of being home for 4 1/2 years? Am I simply, at times, a shitty mother?

Though I don't remember play during very early childhood, I do remember the nonchalance with which neighborhood mothers treated their kids. We never entreated our mothers to play with us. If we were bored, we got 'Go outside' or 'Go read a book' or 'Play with your brother/sister.' We played with our neighbors' kids or our siblings or by ourselves and that was that. I never said to my mother, "Let's have a picnic. You be the Daddy and I'll be the Mommy."

It was just different back then. In so many ways. We could be outside all day without checking in, only to walk inside just before dinner, only to run back outside until dusk chased us in. Perhaps it was that indifference that taught us how to entertain ourselves.

Somehow, along the way, mothers got roped into trying to fill every minute of their children's lives with crafts and activities and games. Somehow, we evolved from the three-martini playdate into playdates featuring Thanksgiving crafts that require every ounce of our attention be on children holding feathers and a shitload of glue. Somehow, we are responsible for all of our children's entertainment.

As a firstborn, Hannah bore the brunt of my playtime indifference. We'd be on the floor with blocks or a puzzle, and I'd find my mind wandering. And my eyes, over to the bookshelf with the Best American Shorts Stories series on it. How many Best American Short Stories compilations has Lorrie Moore been in, I'd wonder to myself. Then I'd skoot over to the bookshelf, and pull down the books and count. (Answer: a goddam lot.) Inevitably, Hannah would follow and start pulling books down as well until I realized that I was no longer paying attention to her.

I've gotten better with Lillian, forcing myself to enter her world. We'll race shopping carts around our still furniture-less living room. She laughs hysterically when I run hunched over, pretending to crash into the wall. I let her cook me dinner in the play kitchen, and feign concern when she tells me the pizza she cooked is still too hot. We have picnics with pretzels and juice while Hannah is in school.

And when Lillian naps, Hannah and I will bust out the crayons and glue and paint, or have a picnic of our own, or play on the computer. Today, we put our names on the Christmas stockings I just purchased. I wrote in glue, and she poured the glitter on. "Teamwork," she said, and we high-fived. But then I wanted to do something else. My mind, scattered and fragmented with squishy post-its -- clean this, call this person, make this appointment, figure out dinner, get some more time in for the job, figure out where to put the cinnamon pine-cones so Lily won't break them, find sticky spot on floor and wipe it, etc. -- wandered. And so did I. Not too long after I made my break, Hannah called after me, "Mommy, I want you."

There is a picture I took of Hannah when she just started pulling herself up. She had crawled over to me as I stood above her, and just as she pulled herself to standing using my pants, I snapped the shot. It is a picture that is duplicated in some fashion every day: one or both of my children tugging at me, and I wonder, have we bred different, needier children from generation to generation, or are they simply responding to me, and trying to pull me back?