Updated: June 1, 2017
Originally Published: August 18, 2015
If I were to compile a list of activities I find less than enjoyable, it would undoubtedly include kneeling on unforgiving surfaces and engaging with toys that have likely been marinating in a concoction of various germs.
Recently, my beautiful daughter, with her sparkling eyes, excitedly asked me—after I had already been awake for sixteen hours—if I would join her in a hairstyling game while she relaxed in the tub.
Honestly, the answer was a resounding no. I certainly did not feel like playing that game, particularly as I was battling a bit of discomfort. I could have conjured excuses—there were undoubtedly towels to fold, dishes to wash, or even the prospect of stabbing my own eye with a hot poker—but sometimes, being the adult means setting aside your own feelings, no matter how unenthusiastic you might be.
I often worry that I let my children down by not being the carefree parent they might wish for. I mean, I do kiss them in public and politely refuse their requests for face tattoos before family gatherings, but I hope to be remembered as more fun, more insightful, and more interested in their incessant chatter about gaming or crafting than is perhaps reasonable.
It wasn’t until I entrusted my children to my own mother that I discovered her own impatience with little ones. Not in a harsh manner, but rather in a way that revealed her filter had worn thin after sixty years. When I was a child, I was blissfully unaware of this. I remember her patiently helping me choose books at the library, skillfully untangling knots, and cheerfully allowing me to assist her in baking. She offered support and encouragement while quietly standing by, ready to move on to her next task when the moment arose.
What I failed to comprehend was that in her quietude, she might have been envisioning a world where she could indulge in her own desires.
From driving me to activities that likely bored her to tears to ensuring that every celebration featured gifts adorned with labels from my favorite characters, my mother constructed a universe filled with joyful memories. I appreciate the lengths she went to more than I can express.
This is why, on that particular evening, I looked down at my daughter, who was eagerly awaiting my response while clutching a long-haired mermaid in each hand, surrounded by the bubbles I had meticulously crafted with my special technique, and smiled. I pushed aside my impatience, disinterest, and exhaustion and said, “Of course I’d love to, sweetheart!”
It’s why I endured the discomfort in my knees for the next half hour, creating mohawks and updos by the tub’s edge. I even dedicated time the next morning to mastering the art of French braiding the tangled red locks of an Ariel doll, preparing myself for the next time she enthusiastically invited me to our special hairstyling game.
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In summary, while adult responsibilities may sometimes feel burdensome, they are intertwined with the joy of nurturing our children’s imaginations and creating lasting memories.