Sometimes it’ll be Lego. Other times it’s mini plastic Disney princesses being chased by dinosaurs. My four-year-old daughter, Adriana, will create a game, come over to give me her most appealing smile, and say: ‘Mummy, will you play with me?’
Who could resist?
She’s four years old with big blue eyes and knows just how to persuade me. So, I get down onto the carpet, grab a plastic dinosaur, and we start to play.
But within five minutes, something happens. My mind wanders. I stop making ‘Grr’ noises on behalf of my inanimate T-Rex and think about all the work I should be doing – the laundry that needs folding, the dishes waiting to be washed.
Once she’s lost in her game, I’ll gently put my dinosaur down and retreat stealthily to the kitchen, hoping she won’t notice.
I’ve only played for about five minutes. And I feel terrible about it.
I have beaten myself up over this for years, wondering what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I empty my busy mind long enough to sit and play? Was my mothering ability lacking? Was it our modern, busy age?
I love my daughter, and my nine-year-old son. But I am, quite simply, atrocious at play. I feel I should stand up and announce this, Alcoholics Anonymous-style, clutching my name badge: “My name’s Julie and I’m rubbish at playing with my children.”
I first noticed it when my kids were just babies. At other people’s houses, the mums seemed to gravitate to carpet-level. They wanted to build with blocks or make teddies come to life for their children. I was reticent, gripping my coffee, unable to take the leap from armchair to floor.
It isn’t that I don’t love my children. It isn’t that I didn’t bond with them. I didn’t suffer postnatal depression or feel distant from them. It isn’t that I don’t understand how important play is.
I just can’t seem to do it for longer than five minutes.
As the years have passed, it’s stayed the same. I work at home as a writer, so career and home life merge and overlap. Often, mid-game or story, I’ll think: I really should work on that article…
Or else it’s general housework: That laundry needs putting outside.
And off I’ll go, mid-game, to do whatever it is that needs doing.
I have beaten myself up over this for years, wondering what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I empty my busy mind long enough to sit and play? Was my mothering ability lacking? Was it our modern, busy age?
Then I read a study which surprised me.
According to research by the University of California, mums – and dads – across most Western countries are now spending more time with their children than parents did in the 1960s.
The study found that, in 1965, mums spent an average of 54 minutes per day on childcare activities. By 2012, that increased to 104 minutes a day. And dads had done even better – their time spent with kids had quadrupled from an average of 16 minutes a day to just under one hour.
Why are some parents so good at playing, while others – like me – are not?
It surprised me. Although many more women were working in the 1960s, most mothers still stayed at home. Surely this meant they had less on their minds and more time to sit on the floor?
Not so, apparently. It seems they were perhaps too busy doing housework – with fewer modern appliances than we have today – and so spent less time with their children.
This eased my guilt a little. But it still didn’t answer why some of my peer parents were so good at playing, while others – like me – were not. I asked some friends for their thoughts.
One mum – a real natural, ‘earth mother’ – said: ‘I feel it’s important to just spend time with them, make-believing, doing funny voices, drawing, play-acting. I love spending time with my son and the time flies by.’
Another said: ‘I don’t actually enjoy it, per se, but I do it because I feel guilty if I don’t!’
It’s true that our 1960s’ counterparts had less time to spare because they had fewer labour-saving devices. Housework inevitably took longer. But could pressure from having so much modern technology in the house also play a part?
In my case, I’ll admit to checking my emails every few minutes because I work at home. I’ll be mid-dinosaur-Disney-princess-apocalyptic-adventure and think: I wonder if that client has replied yet? And off I’ll go to check.
Another honest mum friend who shoots from the hip said to me: ‘You’re just making excuses because you don’t enjoy play.’
Maybe she was right. I never really grew up around children or spent a lot of time with them. My own kids were very much wanted, but I realised when I had them how little I knew about just playing with children. Play just hasn’t come naturally to me, ever.
Laundry doesn’t need folding there and then, the dishes will survive being left dirty until later, emails can go unchecked for a while
Am I making excuses?
Sometimes, yes. Laundry doesn’t need folding there and then, the dishes will survive being left dirty until later, emails can go unchecked for a while. None of it is urgent. But my mind – as many mums today concede – often feels busy with things to do, lists to tick off, small things to achieve.
If plates are stacking up or bathrooms are filthy, I feel an itch to get them sorted; to achieve something tangible. As terrible as it sounds, I sometimes feel play is ‘wasted’ time when I could be getting on with jobs that need doing.
Yet I know how important play is. Study after study in recent years has concluded that play, particularly for young children, increases their self-awareness and self-respect, helps their physical and mental health, and aids their learning. Some confirm it’s important a child’s primary caregiver plays with them, interacts with them, sings with them and so on.
So, I’ve set myself a challenge. Each day, I’m setting aside half an hour where I will forget the dishes and the laundry. I’ll turn my phone off and hide it somewhere out of sight.
I will launch myself from sofa to carpet and try my absolute best to play. To properly, truly play.
That way, when my daughter is 17 and slams the front door as she goes off with her friends, I won’t have any regrets.
My name is Julie and I’m a mother who’s rubbish at play. But I’m going to try to get better. Honest.
