I still don’t know how to play.

My son tells me that I never play with him.  I have always dismissed this idea, because I spend all kinds of time with him.  I remind him that I picked him up from school,  ate dinner with him, helped him with his Valentine’s cards, and that we watched the Dog Whisperer together.   When he tells me I never play with him for the seventh time, I almost hear him.

He is right. I don’t think I know how to play.  When I try, I’ll ask him what we should play. When he shrugs his shoulders, I make suggestions.  I try to find the bucket of dinosaurs, or all of the bakugan that came in the special holiday collector’s tin.  I decide we need to clean up his room so we can find the snake bakugan.  I decide to re-arrange the toys in his room, creating new storage solutions that are fun and practical at the same time.  I sit back and marvel at the lovely clean room I have created.  I still don’t know how to play.

I want to learn.  He has grown six inches in four months.  How much longer will he even talk to me, much less want to play with me?  I finally break down and  ask him over dinner, “how do you learn to play?”

He looks at me like I am made of cheese.  “I don’t know Mom, you just try.”

So tonight, I tried.  I discovered that playing doesn’t require all the parts the toy came with.  Play is spontaneous.  Games don’t need names or rules. Two couch cushions, a nerf bullet and the lid to a butter cookie tin have enourmous potential.

I still don’t know how to play, but I am going to try.

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