Tag, You’re It! Everything I Needed to Know in Motherhood I Learned on the Playground

I loved recess in elementary school. I looked forward to it every day—the time with friends and classmates while teachers half-heartedly looked on, enjoying their own break as we relished our half hour of freedom; the ability to slip out onto the playground and expel all of that pent-up energy; the smell of fresh-cut grass; the heat that hit your face as the doors flew open; and that all-too-familiar smell of sweaty playground kids when those 30 minutes of bliss came to an end. Some of my most vivid memories come from games we played on a daily basis—some organized, some not so much, but all games that have been played for generations.

As I journey through motherhood, I’m slowly becoming aware that parenting very closely resembles those games of my past on the playground. The rules, structure, and general philosophy of each game can be found somewhere in my current day-to-day activities.

TAG

These days, tag is most often found in my marriage. As a work-from-home mom, I serve as the primary caretaker while my spouse travels most weeks. After being “on” for hours and days at a time, the game begins the second my husband walks in the door: “Tag, you’re it!” When you are “it,” you find there are days when you run on fumes, just trying to keep up with the little minions in your world. Being “it” means you run until you are out of breath, until you think you might just fall over…and you still can’t catch anyone. But suddenly, the familiar sound of the key slipping into the front door jars you from your exhaustion. The bolt unlocks; the door opens; footsteps echo in the hall; and you realize you’re seconds away from no longer being “it.” Yes, there are days when tag becomes “TAGGGGGGG, YOU’RE ITTTTTTT!!!” and I have to fight the urge to run from the house, keys in hand, for a pedicure at the nearest day spa. Tag is and always will be one of my favorites.

TELEPHONE

You remember the game: Someone starts with a message; everyone passes it around the circle by whispering it once into someone else’s ear; and the last person in the game has to relay the message. Only, in motherhood, you are the sole recipient of the message, and its originator is a two-year-old who’s just learning how to talk and has no idea how to use the vowel O or the consonants G, K, D, F, and P. However, he has a message that desperately needs to be passed around the circle—the circle of only you. Breaking the traditional rules of the game, you ask him to repeat the word multiple times, ask him to show you what he wants, and offer him 78 different items that clearly aren’t the item he attempted to convey through the initial message. The message’s originator is now in tears, throwing a full-on tantrum. In a complete act of desperation, you turn to his four-year-old sibling at your side and say, “What is your baby brother saying?” With no hesitation, said four-year-old simply replies, “He wants his juice, Mom.”

MOTHER, MAY I?

Yep, we played this one often on the playground. And now? We play it ALL. DAY. LONG. But in our house, it goes more like this:

Child: “Mommy, I want a cookie.”
Me: “No, you may not.”

Child: “Mommy, my brother just hit me!”
Me: “Young man, no, you may not!”

Child: “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. MOMMY!!”
Me: “WHAT?!?!”
Child: “Nothing. I just wanted to be sure you were listening.”

Child: “Mommy, I love you.”
Me: “Awww, baby, I love you too.”
Child: “Now may I have a cookie?”
Me: “No, you may not.”

TETHER BALL

Tether ball seemed to dominate the days of my fifth-grade year, but to be honest, I wasn’t a huge fan. Something about it seemed so mundane and repetitive. Yet, tether ball often resembles everyday stretches in motherhood: those weeks when it feels like you are living the same day over and over and over again. That ball just keeps swinging around the poll, stuck on a rope, with nowhere to go except around and around. Then, in a move of defense, and for your own sanity, you decide to stop your opponent, Redundancy, from winning. Sometimes, it works: You reach out to strike; your hand connects; and you get that ball swinging in the other direction. This might be a trip to the zoo on a perfect April afternoon when the weather is gorgeous; all of the animals are out; and your child looks at you in pure delight of your brilliant plan to get out of the house.

But sometimes, it doesn’t: You reach up; the rope wraps around your arm, leaving a rope burn like nobody’s business; and you get a major penalty. You know those days, moms—like the time when you were about to go ape shnizz if you had to listen to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse one more time and, in an act of desperation, pulled everyone out of the house at 11:45 A.M. (dangerously close to lunch and nap time) and headed to the park…in August…in South Texas…without a water bottle or snack…and with kids who decided precisely at noon that it’s lunchtime and that if they didn’t eat lunch IMMEDIATELY they would die. Ugh, I still don’t like tether ball.

KICKBALL

I like to think of picking teams for kickball much like attending a play group or open gym in which you walk in knowing no one. You quickly scan the group of moms and determine who the team captains are. As your children start to play, you realize you are being watched, analyzed, sized up against the competition. Yearning for a Girls Night Out and desperate for a mom-friend—particularly one who might have a playmate for little Johnny—you pray to be picked on one of the “teams,” dreaming that the Bunco night those moms keep talking about just might include you. Oh, crap! You awaken from your daydream just in time to see little Johnny hit one of the team captains’ children. And just like that time in third grade, you aren’t picked for kickball; the teams already have an even number of players; and you are left watching on the sidelines.

RED ROVER

Once you realize the team captains from kickball are not, in fact, going to invite you to play on their teams, you decide it’s time to take matters into your own hands. All your actions turn into body language that screams, “Look at me! I’m fun! My kids are awesome! I am really funny! You want to hang out with me!” You spy a mom in the corner who clearly was also overlooked for kickball and start your inner-chant: “Red Rover, Red Rover, let Callie’s mom come over!” Except it sounds a little more like, “Your little girl is cute. How old is she? Three? Oh, my little angel is three, too! They look like they get along. Where do you all live?” while in the back of your mind a voice warns, “Play it cool! Don’t freak her out by coming on too strong. And please don’t let little Johnny smack precious Callie.” Yes, Red Rover does exist in the world of moms.

So it turns out, the classroom was little help in preparing me for the ultimate job I’d one day take on: MOTHERHOOD. Who knew I’d learn all I ever needed to know as a mom on the playground!

Brooke
Brooke graduated high school from right here in San Antonio. After twelve years of living everywhere from Colorado to Greece, London to Atlanta, she and her husband have made San Antonio home and have become parents to their daughter and son. Brooke loves finding undiscovered activities around the city and dragging her kids along! She is a runner, an amateur cook that loves trying out San Antonio’s growing culinary scene and is actively involved in non-profit organizations in San Antonio.

1 COMMENT

  1. It’s so much easier to go with the flow of things instead of trying to make your child fit into what you imagined they would be like.

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