I wasn't long into motherhood when I realized that imaginative play wasn't my bag. As I write this, I realize my self-discovery pre-dates motherhood and actually goes back to the those precious years when I was Auntie Mame to Megan, Nick, and Lissi.
Nick had an elaborate pirate ship and begged me to play him. I'd grab a matey and make a half-hearted attempt at conversation and suddenly hear: Auntie Kelly, you're not playing!
When Tim was a toddler, we invested a pretty penny into wooden trains. I would spend lots of time building intricate tracks complete with bridges, overpasses, and an engine shed. I watched the movies, I perused the catalogues, I bought the t-shirts, the jammies, and the undies. But I hated doing the voices.
I'll play board games all night. I love tiddly-winks and Stratego and Sorry. I'll even suffer through Candyland, though I have been known to hide Glumpy if the game drags on. I don't much care for Risk and I'll venture into Monopoly only on a long afternoon and with a clear ending time in mind. Overall, though, I'm a good sport when it comes to games.
The same holds true for books. I love to read with the kids. I'll read book after book after book, especially if I am well-caffeinated. John's current favorite is Caps for Sale. He will happily hear it a dozen times.
But I don't do voices.
John came running to me this mornings with an urgent request that I play Rescue Heroes with him. I tried, really I did, but it's just not my thing. There I sat with Billy Blazes and Warren Waters trying to make small talk, but actually dreaming up a way to escape.
Five minutes into it, John barked: Talk, Rescue Heroes. Tallllk!
I was a magnificent failure. My out came a few minutes later when, with great relief, I discovered the batteries on the aircraft carrier were dead. Back in a minute...