too grown-up

I remember, as a child, never growing tired of playing. I could wake up in the morning and play all day and be sorry when the day was over because there was still more playing to do.

Often, it involved toys (most commonly Barbie dolls), although it could also be other kinds of play, like tag or house or just hanging out on the swing set or my bike. Having a brother and a sister and a neighbourhood full of kids, there was usually no shortage of people to play with – but when I had to fly solo that was fine, too. As long as I was playing, then all was right with the world.

I also remember hearing this story from a friend (you know who you are): apparently, as a child, said friend wanted to play, one day, with her mother. But when she asked, her mother told her that she couldn’t play because she had forgotten how to. I think my friend’s reaction was bewilderment, but at the time she told me the story, she admitted that she had come to understand because, as an adult, she, too, had forgotten how to play.

Being somewhat delayed in my maturity, even as an adult, it surprised me that someone could forget how to play. We might stop playing because of more pressing obligations and a waning interest, but forget? Wouldn’t that be like forgetting how to ride a bike or write your name?

But now, in my late 30s, I think I’m finally starting to get it.

I was thinking about this today as I dragged Oliver, kicking and screaming, out of the playground and toward home. We had been there for over an hour – OVER AN HOUR! He had exhausted (or so I thought) the swings, the slide, the ladder that takes you up to the next level, the steering wheels you can find here and there, and the ramp that wraps around to meet itself in a vaguely circular formation that can be run around and around and around and, yes, around. From my perspective, there was nothing left to do but head home.

Wrong.

Since the sun came out and the snow melted away, my son has turned into Outside Boy. Any chance – or even perceived chance – to be not inside, he’s all over that. It doesn’t matter if it’s a playground full of kids or our miniscule backyard, where he’s content to rip up handfuls of grass to fill his dump truck (or more fun still, my potted lavender).

I’m trying to understand. Really, I am. But somewhere along the way I got waylaid with the pressures of work, bills to pay and expectations to “act your age.” Somewhere, between deadlines, I suppose, I, too, forgot how to play. And now, when I should be enjoying a carefree afternoon in the playground with my son, I’m thinking about how I should get home and work on a story or do some research or clean or shop for groceries or something, anything besides wasting my time following a 23-month-old around a jungle gym.

It’s not like I didn’t plan for this. The opportunity to take part in such activities is precisely why I chose to stay at home. I wanted to be the one to do these things with him, and not give that privilege to someone else – especially a virtual stranger. But I guess after years of demanding deadlines and adrenaline producing focus, I’m still adjusting to the idea of freedom to do what I (we) want when I (Oliver) want(s) it. In fact, the less work I take on, the more pressure I feel to do it.

But now that I’m thinking about it, perhaps I’ll start to come around. It is, I admit, a struggle, but I want to make the effort to re-open my eyes to at least some of the living that I managed to discard in my journey through adulthood – simple pleasures, such as puddle jumping or the taste of a fresh peach or the worldly wisdom of Winnie-the-Pooh. The feel of new, spring grass, the excitement of seeing a puppy dog in the park – these things tweak the senses, and increase the pleasure of living in a world that can be, let’s face it, dull and depressing when you really think about it.

I certainly don’t want to deny my son these pleasures simply because I lost my own joie de vivre.

Or maybe I just misplaced it for a while. And maybe, if I work hard at not working so hard at things, I will remember, once again, how to play.