Me, the Dinosaur Hunter

a blanket fort castle during a January snow storm

When I was about 9 or 10 and my little sister was Max's age I used to play this game with her. I would lay on the couch and pretend I was on a boat and she would be in the carpet "water". It was her job to keep me alive. I couldn't swim. I would roll to the edge of the couch and flail my arms shouting about how I was falling and going to drown. She, with all of her three year old might would push up my legs and then my arms and my middle. I would keep rolling, trying to touch the carpet water, and she would desperately maintain her budging and shoving until, exasperated, her strength would fail her and I would come down crashing into the raging carpet waters. I would then flop and flail and gasp until I lay there, lifeless --- eyes closed --- tongue hanging out. Always the tongue hanging out. And then she would shake me and try to wake me but I was dead. I had drowned. And then she would start pretend crying. And then I would say it's okay I am alive and give her a hug. And then we would start over again. She would ask to play over and over and we would fill up a good chunk of the afternoon. And afterward I probably gave her a big spoonful of peanut butter with sprinkles on it because that is what I gave her when she was a good girl. In retrospect, this game seems kind of mean, but I promise it was all good classic big-sister-little-sister fun.

The other day I played this game with Max. I told him I was on the ship and he was going to save me. As soon as I started flailing and falling off the bed he, instead of saving me, pulled me off into the raging carpet waters and tackled me. I tried to tell him that I couldn't go in there because I couldn't swim but he still pulled me off the bed the next three times we tried it. So, basically, it didn't work.

All day long around here it is tackling and I'm-going-to-get-you. In the last week I have been a dinosaur hunter, a cowboy, a lion and a marching band person. A box has been turned into a rocket ship, a hiding fort and then into a bear's cave. My vacuum cleaner attachments are swords and telescopes. My legs are a bridge to the couch as they rest on an ottoman. My lifted leg is a fireman's pole when I am laying down. My fingers tickle, my voice makes scary monster sounds, my nose is to be honked ......

I have realized that all too frequently I am my child's favorite toy. Whether my body has literally become the toy or I am simply fueling the fire of their imaginations ----

I was with a friend the other day and her daughter was acting like a mermaid in a ball pit. A pink mermaid. I watched my friend as she told the pink mermaid to look out for the big shark that was coming (guess who was the shark) and that she better get up onto the dry land. While she was on the dry land she was lathered in sun tan lotion and sang to and later offered a glass of cool lemonade. I thought about what a difference it must be at a house full of girls. Lots and lots of imaginary cakes to be eaten, castles to be made, jewelry to be worn, unicorns and princesses and ponies to be. What a different day they must have.

But is all boils down to the same thing. Letting go. Letting go of our will to get the dishes or laundry done. Letting go of our desire to do something structured or scheduled. Letting go of our of our dignity (just long enough to act like a rodeo horse or a snake charmer).

I have been letting go a lot more often lately and I have realized that in letting go, I am holding onto something greater. My children. And somehow, in some strange way I feel I am getting more accomplished. The laundry isn't done, the floor hasn't been mopped in two weeks, but I am happy. And grateful.