Jennifer Horgan: Are there other playless parents out there feeling as guilty as me?
Now that my children are older — my youngest nine, my eldest fourteen — I find myself frozen against play of any kind or description. Something in me has gone on strike. The mere mention of cards, or — God forbid — a board game, has me in a cold sweat.
The work of parenting has never been a problem for me. It’s the play I can’t stand.
It’s at its worst when we’re on holidays. My husband fills the gap — takes the children to the beach or wherever. They’ll play football on the sand, build giant castles and jump in the waves. All that memorable golden stuff of childhood.
I’ll stay home. I’ll spend my solitary hours catching up on work. I’ll do a few much needed rounds of clothes-washing. It’s a snapshot of how our little family works. Pretty regularly, my husband does the work of play, and I do the work of, well, just work.
I’m not saying either one of us has it easier than the other. I mean, I’m grateful for him. Even as a child I wasn’t that big into games. By the time I was a teenager my time was devoted to all things solitary. I loved to dance but not with other people.
I avoided team sports. My best moment in school was when they decided to do step aerobics with us rather than hockey. In many ways, I haven’t changed. Should I have thought a little more about my lack of a play gene before becoming a parent? If I were a single parent, I’d be well and truly scuppered. Or maybe I’d just be better?
Like I say, the work of parenting is fine. I can pack lunches, check temperatures, book appointments. I have good intuition. I’m an easy talker. I can talk to my kids about anything, no problem — I love the work of their personal and emotional growth.
I was pretty good with them at the baby stage, even before it started. Living in London, money was tight, so I shopped for baby clothes in charity shops in the poshest pockets of the city. Before my eldest was born, I’d bring them home, beautiful little French outfits, wash them in Fairy, and hang them up on the wardrobe at the foot of our bed.
My son was a beef to the heels kind of Irish baby, with a full head of black hair — half reared on arrival. My picture-perfect French numbers did well to stretch across him once or twice. Soon, I realised that a cotton baby grow was my best friend. Breastfeeding was also less straightforward than I expected, but overall I coped okay in those early years. It was extraordinary, all of it, managing my post C-section body, managing his small one — having a brand new human in our lives. I struggled, but rose to the challenge.
Babyhood I could manage — but then came the children. And even the most ordinary things seemed insurmountable. I mean, what is more simple and straight-forward than playing?
In their early years, play felt different because it was part of their development in a more obvious way. It featured in my routine because I understood its importance. Because we moved to the Middle East, we could afford for me to stay at home.
I knew they needed tummy time and stimulation, so I absolutely got down on my knees with blocks and balls and jigsaws and paints and sorting games. It was play for them, work for me. I went to play zones and toddler time and all the rest of it. I got the job done.
But now, my children are older — my youngest nine, my eldest fourteen — and I find myself frozen against play of any kind or description. Something in me has gone on strike. The mere mention of cards, or — God forbid — a board game, has me in a cold sweat.
Am I alone? That’s what I’d like to know. Can I please share this guilt with other parents out there? Parents who delegate the play part of parenting to their partner?
Of course I try. I don’t always opt out of the play part of being a parent. I sometimes do what I don’t feel like doing. I push myself to get involved and when I do, it’s ... okay. I mean, it’s mildly passable, like a substandard sitcom or a bland dessert. I can tolerate it.
But it never makes me want to do it again. I especially struggle with long board games. I pretty much hate them. No, I do. I hate board games. I genuinely don’t understand how other people find games like Monopoly fun. Don’t even talk to me about Ludo.
Was play so important for my parents? I don’t think so. I remember playing cards on holidays as a kid but that’s about it. But yes, I’d certainly associate my dad with play far more than my mum. Is this a gender thing? Oh God, not another one ... I mean, my children are not going to remember my neatly folded piles, are they? How I leave them on the steps of the stairs for them to ignore, until I shout at them to carry them to the disasters that are their bedrooms. It’s not exactly the stuff of memories, is it?
They will remember playing games on the beach with their father, though.
Do most adults hate play so much that they’re willing to put a giant dent in their bank balance to avoid it? I mean, when you think about it, why pay for ‘tiny tot’ football, when you could just head into a park with a ball and your child yourself?
Does the whole extra-curricular machine run on parental guilt? After a day at work the last thing most of us want to do is head out the back for some ball throwing. So we pay someone else to do it. We exhaust ourselves driving multiple kids in different directions, yes, but at least we don’t have to play ourselves.
I definitely think guilt of some kind drives a lot of parenting these days — guilt that we are all working, that we’re not around to make cupcakes and casseroles. Maybe the guilt extends to paying for play too.
In August, the US Surgeon General Dr Vivek Murthy called parental stress an urgent public health issue. Are we inching close to that here?
The one thing I comfort myself with is the fact that I am, without doubt, an authentic parent. More cotton baby grow than a Le Petit Bateau outfit, maybe; more practical than fun, yes, but authentic. My children understand who I am as a person. I think — at least I hope — that’s a pretty important part of parenting — to share yourself honestly with the people you love.
They love my husband for being himself too, and we are all lucky that he’s someone who still likes to play, well into his forties.
There’s no such thing as perfect parenting, is there? There is only good enough parenting, or so I’ve heard. The question is this: is it good enough to be a playless parent? Are there, maybe, other playless parents out there? Maybe feeling as guilty as I feel? Or, am I plain odd in my fear of the rolling dice, the ball, the bat, the soul-destroying boringness of the board game that never ends?
Well…Am I?
