Wednesday, April 2, 2008


I've realized I'm not super-great at playing with my daughter. Dyami was a bit worried that she was picking up my somewhat rabid reading addiction (since she doesn't play with toys, but only wants us to read to her), so I have made a concerted effort to actually stack blocks, tickle Elmo, and stuff a walrus inside a handbag. (Kidding! I don't have a Tickle Me Elmo.) (and the walrus isn't real).
Problem with playing: it's not terribly organized. There's no clear narrative. You just sit and do...something. What's the point again?
I used to be so good at playing. My sister and I constructed elaborate communes with free-loving stuffed animals--monkeys living with bears and foxes! oh my!) I "built" dollhouses using picture books and a chair. I dug in dirt!
Now, I sit on the floor with Lucy, trying to contain my Play anxiety. Am I doing it right? Is it Wholesome?
When she picked up a book and said, "More? More?" (Meaning, would you read this, already?") I gave up. Picked her up, and sighed my relief at having a script to follow.

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