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I’m not a fun, play-on-the-floor kind of mom.
Sure, it happens occasionally. Mostly I’m a reluctant crafter, a baker, a popcorn maker. A movies and cuddles, a stack of library books on the couch, an Uno-playing mama. Please, Lord, anything but making me play Barbies.
(Apparently playing Barbies until I was – gulp – 14 has given me some sort of fear of them for the rest of my life.)
But tonight David wants to play airplane. He’s zooming around with his arms straight out and the biggest gleeful smile you ever saw. First Daddy joins in. He pretends to get stuck in the door frame. The giggles are filling the room with warmth and light.
And I get up, off the couch, and zoom up and down the hallways a few times. And Daddy and I create a game David dubs “The Backwards Game,” as we scuff our feet across the carpet trying to make enough static electricity to shock each other. We’re all laughing. Laughing feels good. It relieves.
The time is flying. We watched videos of Libbie at 2 and couldn’t believe that baby girl with tight ringlets is 5 now and right on her way to be a sullen teen. So we take the time. We play airplane and backwards. We fly.