We all have an area we excel in more than another. This pertains to every area of life, parenthood is not an exception. Some enjoy getting their hands dirty while others would much rather sit on the sidelines taking pictures than burn our bums on a slide that’s been sitting in the scorching sun all day.
J is fun. He likes to play. He’s good at it when he’s on his game. Kids that he’s never met before gravitate to him, because I guess he just radiates a sense of a good time. When we go to a playground, he’s the one climbing amongst the little ones, like a kid himself. For the most part, however, he sets them free.
I, on the other hand, would rather sit on a bench, away from the brunt of the action. I take pictures as a coping mechanism. I enjoy the breeze. I try not to hover over my kids as they play because I worry too much. I’m trapped in my head, the what if’s make me flustered and jittery. My brain and the possibilities of what could happen never turn off. I’m more focused on the mess and chaos and making sure every foot lands safely. I have to force myself to play instead of fret.
It’s been a long road towards accepting our natural roles. I would like to say we make a good team, J and I. That we balance each other out. That I’ve spared my kids a knock or two by watching so intently, anyway. In the end, though, I simply feel like a party pooper. I’m like the old lady, shaking her cane, screeching at the young’uns to keep it down in there.