How Baby

Much like my ability to squat deeper than knee-height, my imagination is like a shrivelled up little raisin compared to the absolute powerhouse of a child’s. I literally write silly little stories for a living, but every time Momo asks me to play dolls with her, I feel like I’ve never had an original idea in my life.

I’ve been terrible at ‘playing’ with Momo for as long as she’s been alive. Like, yes, I would play and make up stories when I was a child, but the prospect of doing that now makes me feel like I’d rather crawl into a hole. I have enough going on in my head already, you know? If I have to cram in a child’s repetitive miniature melodramas something important is going to fall out. You know, like the quadratic equation song I learned in tenth grade.

I’ve just never really been the ‘playing’ kind of mom. Now that she’s older and her play feels more like things I recognize as fun, we get along so well. I love doing movie nights and hanging out in bubble tea shops and riding the bus together. Her ability to play with dollies is fading, which is bittersweet, but I’m grateful for the interests we can genuinely share now.

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TRANSCRIPT

Two panel comic, no dialogue. In the first panel, an inset panel of a fresh bunch of grapes relates to Momo happily playing with toy horses. In the second panel, a similar inset depicting a shrivelled raisin relates to Lindsay, awkwardly holding toys while Momo plays alongside.