One of my son’s favorite games is hide-n-seek which we started playing when he was 20 months old. Because he loves it so much, we go through phases where we play this game all the time - multiple times a day, multiple days a week.
But after a few days of playing the same game, I will get tired of it. So I will say no. No. I am tired. I want to play a game where I can sit.
He will complain and whine. He will plead for one more game. He will try to pull me off the couch. And I will feel a little guilty.
There are days when it is easy to hold my ground and be firm. It is easy to say no when I’ve had enough sleep and I am not too anxious about one thing or another. It is easier to direct him towards another activity if I feel I’ve given enough and deserve a break and some space to think uninterrupted.
But then there are days when everything is too much. There is a lot on my mind, so I get frustrated. Frustrated at being too tired to play with him, frustrated that he even needs me to play with him, frustrated that I feel that way. My refusal tends to get louder, stern, and unfriendly. It is all unnecessary. He only gets needier if he notices my irritation. I know that, yet I cannot help it.
On days like these, while I sit and decline his attempts to get me off the couch, I will recall all the ways I fell short in my role as a parent that day. Like the time I did not play with him at the playground while other parents were running, chasing, jumping, and going up and down the structures with their children. I preferred to watch him instead.
We are all different. I play in other ways, I tell myself.
What parent wouldn’t be a little bored with a game after playing it so many times? Probably just you, says a tiny voice in my head.
The guilt is a lump lodged in my throat.
When I tell him that I am too tired to play, am I teaching him to listen to his body and rest when needed or to be lazy?
I push myself off the couch. One more game and then we will read a book, I tell him.
*
I feel guilty all the time. Maybe not always guilty. But unsure, anxious. About food, activities, playtime, bedtime, toys, and books. Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Am I doing too little? I ask my husband. He swats me away like a fly. Can you relax? Why do you think so much? he tells me at least once daily.
Is everyone not an over-thinker? I wonder what it feels like to be an under-thinker. Or just a plain thinker. Like my husband. My mind is blank, he says whenever I ask him what he is thinking.
How can it be blank? There has to be some thought. Maybe you don’t know how to catch it.
No, he says, there his nothing on my mind. It’s just blank.
I find it hard to believe that such a thing is possible. That not everyone has a million thoughts racing through their mind each minute.
*
My son is an over-thinker. I can feel it.
Why did she hug you before she left? Why did she hug you as soon as she came? Why did she hug you both the times? What happens if you don’t hug them back? What happens if you never want a hug?
I love his questions. They offer a fresh pair of eyes at all that is around me. But his best questions come forth when I am not in the best mood to answer them - at bedtime.
Each night, as soon as the lights turn off, he says, Kasa Ooloche? What shall we talk about? And despite my protests at being too sleepy, we talk for fifteen minutes or longer.
Why did Moana fight with Kakamora? What will Kakamora do if they get hurt? Why did they want the green stone? Why do you need a car transporter to carry cars? Why can’t you just drive them one by one? Why did that kid’s parents sit on the see-saw?
At some point, the questions stop. There is silence. He is not asleep yet but I know that soon he will be. In that silence, I sense peace, a reconciliation. Maybe my responses were enough. Enough to make up for all the times I said no. For all the times I did not play with him.
Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow I’ll do better.