Mama? When will you play with me?
In a minute, okay?
I'm stalling. Not really interested. Very comfortable where I'm curled. No kid seems to need a nap but I...could......really............use................
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7....
She's whispering right by my head. I'm going to be held to this.
She loses count around 30 but only waits a few moments before asking again.
Mama? Can you play with me now?
My mind was spreading like a slow fog, just about to settle into a cozy, dozy pocket. I gather myself with one deep breath.
Yah, sure.
She hands me one of the toys she had been lining up.
You can be the mother snake.
It's hard to imagine.
Not my role. No, I can slip into pretend play easily enough if I focus. {Though it's work for me -- I'm sorry to say I'm an adult through and through.}
What's hard to imagine is that day light years from now when I am hardly her whole world. When I have to knock on her door and wait for her to let me in. When she might not want to have much to do with me.
That thought, right there, is what keeps my sign flipped to open these days, even though I'm sometimes more of a sorry, we're closed kind of person. I want to establish come on in as a baseline.
We play for awhile and eventually she allows me to downgrade my status from piece-moving participant to a voice on the periphery of her reptile family drama. I'm doing the dishes but still right here, speaking for the mother snake.
She's satisfied with this arrangement. She knows I'm still paying attention.
