My kids are four, and six.
They recently gave me a couple of “humorous” interview sheets. By that, I mean the school asked my kiddos a series of questions about their parents and their answers were written down, ostensibly to be treasured and laughed over for years to come—Or the paper ends up in the recycle bin after a once over. You know, either or.
According to my daughter, I am one hundred years old. My son thinks I am thirteen. My favorite color is “car,” and my job is “the computer.” (OK, that last one tells me I should spend less time on the very thing I’m using to type all this up. Noted.) The interview is supposed to be funny and cute, and for the most part, it is.
One thing struck me on both sheets, however; one genuine answer among the nonsense. When asked to fill in the blank for, “My favorite thing is…” the answer from each was:
“When my Dad plays toys with me.”
Yes, that’s cheesy if you don’t have kids. But if you do? It hits you right in the feels. My kids are at an age—and I know it won’t last—where they don’t care about stature, or what I’ve bought them, or how much money I’ve given them, they just enjoy it when I’m interacting with them. Of all the things my kiddos don’t comprehend—my age, my favorite movie—they know what they love: me.
Getting these little reminders helps me not lose focus; it keeps me grounded.
Playtime with my kids is effortless right now; I don’t have to find “cool” things to do with them. At this age, I just have to be there. On the floor, building a bizarre structure out of blocks, pretending to have a dinosaur drive Barbie’s Dream Car, taking them sledding at the local cemetery—because that’s where the best sledding hill is—or just doing a puzzle.
It’s not the content, it’s the quality.
Time is quality. All of it.
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