I have a confession: I cannot play with my child. When I listen to him playing independently while I cook or read or whatever, I am blissfully happy. I hear his imagination running wild, while I stir the tomato sauce. And then the inevitable… “Mama, will you play with me?” My heart sinks. Because 1) no, please don’t make me and 2) I am a guilt-ridden monster of a human turning down his one and only innocent, sweet desire for connection. Truly, the audacity.
I tell myself that it’s because, at almost 7 years old, the elaborate games he invents are too convoluted, too serious, and always un-winnable for anyone but him.
To wit, he recently built a homemade Lego version of his favorite Super Mario video game levels, including a mini Mario figure. I steeled myself and was told to drag the Mario figure around to each of his levels, which he went on to explain in great detail. Before I knew it, I’d somehow lost a battle against a bad guy and the penance was that Mario would lose his red hat. I tried to have fun with it, joking that Mario was very upset and if it was the last thing he’d do, he would find the nasty thief who’d stolen his precious hat. To paint the picture for you, I used a highly offensive stereotypical Italian accent. “It’s-a-me-a-Mario!” My son, with his childish cheeks and husky lisp, turned to me deadpan and said, “Mama, I don’t like that. You’re not respecting the game.” The sheer willpower it took for me to not get up and leave right then and there…
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