Tag Archives: playtime

Aliens Have Kidnapped My Children

My children are showing bizarre, otherworldly traits, and it can only mean one thing; my tiny humans have been kidnapped by aliens and replaced with imposters.

How do I know? They are playing together. Not only that, but they are ENJOYING IT.

See, I told you so.

Today, I watched them play one pretend game after another. The Boy was the daddy jaguar, The Girl was the baby jaguar, and they gleefully romped all over the house. Whenever they crossed a human’s path, The Boy would leap in front of his sister, and bare his teeth, while The Girl cowered behind him. She even shook with real terror.

Then they were kittens, meowing and pawing at furniture, making a den underneath the kitchen table, and purring while they rubbed up against our legs.

When they weren’t pretending, they were playing together with toy figurines. Pinkie Pie and Rattle Shake battled, swapped sides, and had long conversations on the meaning of life. Okay, I made the last part up, but you get the picture.

Usually, they tolerate each other, and one will only show real affection to the other when they know it will bother them. Nothing says love like an unwanted hug, or so my kids think.

They also engage in classic suck up behavior, with such gems as “See, Mom, I like the quinoa,” or “I chew with my mouth closed;” the battling and tattling, “He breathed on me!” or “She’s in my room! She will destroy everything! Even my soul!*”

So, I was completely unprepared for what happened today. I have no way of telling if this is a temporary alliance, like when France and England would declare a truce in the battle over Calais**, or if it was a real shift in how they regard each other.

Could you imagine a world where siblings co-exist peaceably? It really seems to go against nature. I always thought they thrived on the drama. And if they don’t get it from each other, what will they do?

They will more than like form an unholy alliance against me and their father. They’re both smart kids; we’ll never know what hit us. I’m going to have to nip this in the bud. Maybe I can put one of her stuffed animals in his room or kick around some of his legos just to stir things up. At least then, maybe, I’ll be able to keep my head.

*Actual quote

**Seriously, I have to stop reading novels about the Plantagenets


Filed under Partying with the Ponies

Let’s Pretend…

I absolutely hate playing pretend with my daughter. I know that this sounds heartless, but when I hear her sweet little voice say, “Okay, let’s pretend you saw this kitty and you wanted to adopt her,” it is all I can do to not roll my eyes so far back in their sockets that I look like Little Orphan Annie in her comic strip incarnation.

Don’t get me wrong, I play. I will be the best kitty mama, pony queen, or pet buyer this side of the Mississippi. Scratch that. Both sides of the Mississippi. I know drama. I throw it daily. But the only reason I even entertain the thought of prancing with my hooves held high is because I don’t want to scar my daughter and have her go into therapy claiming no one ever loved her enough to play with her and that’s why she’s now a neurotic cat hoarding mess.

I am not a cat hoarder, but I don’t remember my parents playing games with me when I was younger. At least not games geared to my age range. Candy Land? Nope. Chutes and Ladders? Didn’t even know how to play until I played with my own kids. We played Trivial Pursuit, Facts in Five, or anything else that required useless knowledge. I am not bitter. In fact, I have a great love of useless knowledge and a nerdy passion for research. Did you know that there have been two yellow Labs on Downton Abbey? The first was Pharaoh and the second, Isis. Pharaoh was there for season one, died somewhere between seasons one and two and was replaced by Isis. True story. You’re welcome.

So, I may not like playing pretend, I do it. I do it because I love my daughter and I want her to have happy memories of the time we spend together. But, if she doesn’t remember this and chooses to remember the time the cheese slipped of my cracker and I screamed like a banshee when she didn’t put her shoes on when I asked her to, well, then I might become a crazy cat hoarder. Which is really a shame because while I like cats, I am not a huge fan of litter boxes, cat hair or animals with abscesses and mucousy eyes.


Filed under Partying with the Ponies