So apparently at school yesterday some girl told Eila, “I don’t like you,” and when Eila asked, by way of clarification, “do you still want to be my friend?” the girl said, “no.” I realize this kind of thing happens all the time, and even Eila took it more or less in stride. I was also somewhat heartened when the context came out: the girl was disturbed that Eila didn’t participate in a game of Barbies, but instead watched.
Still, I’m wondering if hanging around with me hasn’t made her too kooky for her peer group. I mean, she and I are always–like always, all the time, every spare minute–playing pretend with dolls and stuffies, which raises in me a feeling akin to boredom, which I assuage by getting all goofy, such that the princess in my fantasy might say something like “hark, hearest thou that distant sound?” and the prince might reply, “yes indeedy do!” Thus do I render her unfit to play Barbies at school, and impose my childhood pariah status on the next generation. And, no, I’m not necessarily proud of it.
The boredom of motherhood was a big topic a few years ago. I haven’t read anything about it lately, but the general line remains true. One finds one’s kids more delightful than anything else, but perhaps not endlessly delightful; or, in other words, they are life’s single greatest pleasure, and jaw-droppingly awesome and all that, but they’re also awfully wearing. I remember around a year ago I dropped Eila off at her California Montessori school on a Monday morning, turned to my student driver, threw my hands in the air, and yelled, “free!” I felt a bit guilty when I noticed the school director listening, but not too guilty.
One of the ways I get myself a little down-time on the weekends is to ask Eila to watch TV. Sometimes this amounts to begging her to watch TV, since she would always rather play pretend. I’m fairly sure her cavalier attitude to the box results from the fact that I’ve never much restricted her TV time. She knows it’s there, and that she can watch if she wants. So she doesn’t.