How (my) Boys Play

And some thoughts on how mothers fit (or don't) into their boys' play

Photo by Austin Pacheco on Unsplash

How (my) Boys Play

Hey, I got an idea! / Okay! / (screams of delight, shrieking) / I wanna do it! / (crashing sounds) / Hey, you broke it! / (screams, stomping of feet) / Are you okay? / (fake crying) / Hey, let’s do something else! / Okay, watch this! / Are you watching? / (yelling) / Do it again! / (hysterical laughter) / Did you see that!? / Yeah, watch this! / (crashing sounds) /  Are you okay? / (crying) / Uh...mom!!

It is hard for me to watch my boys play sometimes. I’m talking about the unstructured, after school, or post-dinner play that borders on insane. The kind of play that doesn’t make space for a mom with jumpy nervous system. We have a three, eight, and ten-year-old and on their own, they can get a little squirrelly. But put all three in the same basement or bedroom and, depending on the time of day or how much sugar they’ve had, wow, it feels like a lot!

One of my closest mom friends and I often talk about how we “used to be better at playing.” We used to be more playful, more fun, more eager to join our children in their ideas. Maybe this is true. Maybe our enthusiasm and tolerance for excitement has been stretched and strained over each of our three children and the ten plus years we have been mothering. Maybe being fun and playful was easier when our kids were little and their ideas were simple and silly. Or maybe this shift from mother and playmate to mother and witness is inevitable?

When our boys were little, say four years and under, their big ideas were not nearly as big as they are now. Back then, jumping off the couch like a superhero might have been the riskiest idea they had. Now that our “big kids” are eight and up, they want to jump off of play structures and crush each other with giant bean bags, play catch with heavy objects, or ride bikes down hills dotted with trees and rocks. They want to play contact sports with us and their siblings, leaving us to play referee.

The other day, my 8-year-old was playing on the guestroom bed with my 3-year-old when my 8-year-old “accidentally” rolled off and pulled my 3-year-old with him. This wouldn’t have been a big deal, except that they were playing “bad guys” and my 3-year-old was holding a thin plastic tool from a pretend veterinary kit, which could have punctured his cheek, but instead, left him significantly bruised.

“We can’t leave them alone for 5 seconds.” My husband and I often say to each other in astonishment. But the truth is, even when we are close by, watching or playing along, we are often unable to prevent accidents and upsets. They just happen.

Most nights, when I make dinner, I let our boys pick a movie or show they can watch together. I feel a prick of guilt admitting how comforting it is to know that they are all sitting still—not fighting, not jumping off anything, not turning random objects into weapons that could hurt each other—just sitting. But I know the wild way they play is how they bond. It’s the reason my older boys are my youngest’s favorite people to play with. “Awex, Con’or, wanna pway wif me?”

I know soon enough, my three-year-old won’t be quite as vulnerable to the growing bodies of my oldest two. And eventually, he might join us to play a board game instead of knocking it off the table so he can roughhouse with his brothers. Maybe then my fried nerves will recover. Maybe not. My bigger hope is that my boys will never tire of finding ways to play together.