I hate playing with my kids. I really, really hate it.

I haven’t blogged in a really long time, mostly due to the fact that the great state of Ohio has no interest in educating my children. During the month of January, my kids only had 17 scheduled days of school. Three of those days were modified as either an early release or morning delay for snow. One was cancelled entirely. So for the month, my kids had 13 regular school days.

What did I learn during those other 18 days sequestered in my home? I learned that I hate playing with my kids. I really, really hate it. I love my kids, but playing is just not my thing. I will help them with their homework. I will support their plethora of after-school activities. I will balance their meals and ensure they have proper rest. But please don’t make me play pretend – not Barbies, not stuffed animals, not toy trains. I spent enough of my life playing pretend. 

It didn’t start that way. We chose to have kids. I didn’t make any large life mistakes, just a series of small compromises. When we had our first child, I sacrificed a little of my career and worked part-time. When we had our second child, I sacrificed my entire career and we moved so that I could stay home.

As a stay-at-home mom, I’ve felt like a failure. My identity has always been synonymous with accomplishing goals. When I clean mashed banana out of the sofa four times a day, there is no reward. What is the goal in raising a child? To survive until bedtime without cracking open a bottle? I thought that I could fake my way through mommyhood until I realized that there is no finite endpoint in child-rearing.

I spent years pretending to be happy. I’d sob on the kitchen floor when my husband left for work in the morning because I was jealous and missed my job. Then I’d host play dates, help with preschool parties, and attend Bunco groups, all while feeling completely out of place. For a while I even volunteered in my kids’ classrooms. I did anything to fit in with the mommies. And there is nothing wrong with any of those things; I just didn’t enjoy any of them. What began as small compromises consumed my entire life.

I’ll never be content to live through my children. I don’t want to be a member of the PTO or spend my evening frosting classroom party cupcakes. I don’t get excited on snow days. I do not want to host a birthday party for a plastic cat. I’ll never care more about my kid’s sports team than I do about my own workout. I’d much rather balance the checkbook and prepare our taxes than perform any child-related activity. Any process excellence expert can tell you that cutting a kid’s food into crazy shapes is a waste of time. According to society’s stay-at-home mom standards, I suck. I’ll draw you a fishbone diagram to prove it.

Is that a bad thing? I don’t think so. I love my kids for whoever and whatever they want to be. I will support them, but I will never try to live through them. I don’t expect them to compromise their lives for my happiness, nor will I compromise mine for theirs.

Maybe having a mom who is comfortable with herself will be beneficial. I hope it frees them to be the people they want to be and that they’ll never feel forced to succumb to outside expectations of who they’re supposed to be. Or maybe it will just result in a large therapy bill. But either way, now I can handle it.