I’m not the mom who loves to play.
I’m not the one who enjoys scuttling around on my hands and knees, driving cars around an invisible track or fighting off pretend pirates.
Imaginary play is NOT my strength.
And sometimes, I feel guilty about that.
I want to be the mom crawling around the park, pretending to be a crime-fighting dinosaur named Nora. The mom who spends hours acting out intricate storylines about robots and aliens, running around the house in costumes as we dodge lava pits and trolls. The mom who doesn’t get bored after a couple minutes of playing with Lego people.
I want to be that “uber fun mom” with endless energy and creative passion for free play. I want to give my kids that experience.
But that’s not me.
And that’s okay too.