Letters to my daughters (August): ENJOY

My girls.

This is a note of thanks.

At this time of year, when bags need packing – then unpacking – and train times, weather forecasts and where we might eat next comprise new sets of family logistics (do we need waterproofs today?) – you remind me still how to relax and enjoy. To play.

You show me, by your other-world creations, your endless drawings and sticking, your wrapping up and dangling the cuddlies from the bannisters with anything long you can get your hands on (dressing gown cord, tape measure, skipping rope – it doesn’t matter). You show me every day what it means to be absorbed by your imagination – the realities you are creating in your moment to moment.

This is not engineered play. This is just play. This is not designed or prepared for, no expensive resources. It is simply your very essential childish expression of what it means to look around you and find something that captures your imagination. Maybe fleetingly. Or sometimes for hours. It is messy and creates chaos to tidy up after. But it is so very precious.

You are not caught up in logistical, long-term, time-bound concerns. You are in motion, a moving force of creative curiosity. Sometimes fraught with drama, noise, excitement. Sometimes crackling with competition between you, nearing the precipice of an argument.

And these are your worlds. Ones you have created – sometimes independently, sometimes together. Ones that you might invite me into. Sometimes not. (And that’s ok.)

So thank you. Because you remind me that I was that too once. I was childish and expressive, talking to my cuddlies and animals as if they were really there, in my world too. When did other things became more important?

Before adulthood, before logistics and waterproofs and what we’re going to eat for dinner – I was able to let myself be swept up and swept away in the drama of my day. Hushed whispers between sisters. Rushing, squealing, through houses being chased by dragons. Solo play, with our menagerie of animals. And sisters, especially Emily: her leading the way, me following on. Granny’s garden. Places to hide. Climbing frames becoming pirate ships. Racing down the bank to kick the can.

It is so hard to be that free now. That carefree. Although, your play doesn’t appear to be care free at all. In fact, you care so deeply about what is happening that mealtimes can wait and nothing is more important than that moment you are in.

When I look at you during this long, hot summer holiday, freed from the rhythms of the term-time week, and sensing the edges of boredom that spur you into action, on the lookout for something to pique interest – I remind myself that we all have that capacity within us.

We are all designed, and put on this earth to play, to create, to build, to be absorbed, to connect with others. Our relatively enormous brains have developed through exactly this capacity for playfulness – and as humans we seek it out and feel better for it.

Sadly, too many people I meet have been dulled by the lack of playfulness in their life. I sometimes feel that too. The logistics have won and we get beaten back by responsibility. It is such a common condition of parenting, let alone working parenting, post-pandemic, mid-financial-environmental-social crisis…

But if we don’t allow for and seek out moments of playfulness – those truly care-free moments – how will humanity survive? What will it all be for?

Actually, back in adult-land, the place I find my imagination most fired up now is in my work. The stories I hear and the dreams people share with me – I can feel swept up in a narrative or an excitement that needs attention, a resolution, a next chapter. That’s not to belittle more emotional or difficult moments of conversation. (And really my role is to witness, not to join in.) But when I work these days, I go on a journey with someone and that is always totally absorbing. I am there, in flow, in thought and in motion with my client.

At the end of this endless summer holiday, when I know we are going to need that term time rhythm before long, I want to say thank you. Thank you for taking me out of the mindset that enables things to get done – and into a mindset that lets me just be. I know that being your mother requires me to have both those qualities. You really help me to enjoy the latter.

By the way. You’ll be older when (or if) you ever read this – and I want you to also know that summer holidays felt very very LONG for us parents. And were also filled with scratchy, tetchy, tense moments too. Don’t think that your playfulness was the perpetual state; it wasn’t. Or that it meant we were in some way immune to the normalities of family life, navigating work (and our own grown-up play!) over the summer weeks. We weren’t. Some days you were bored and so was I.

But when I catch you caught up in your own moments of play, it delights me. I sort of feel you’ll be alright in life if you know how to play.

Never let your capacity for play be dulled. Check in with yourself if it happens. Something will need to change. I hope you will be able to weave play into whatever you do in life – be it brain surgery, acrobatics or farming.

Play offers us a dollop of magic. It offers us a fizz of delight, a feeling of flow. It gives our real worlds more shape, more dimensions, more texture. It gives us a how to the what and the when. It is the root of all solutions, innovation and joy. It is the basis of everything that makes us human: our ancestors became so playful they ended up building tools to break open coconuts, then design rockets to the moon. It isn’t just how we grow; it’s how society grows.

I hope we can play and enjoy playful moments together forever. I know that’s not possible. I know it well. I know our playfulness together will change shape as you grow. But in my heart, and in my imagination, that will forever be what makes everything else worthwhile. To play with you.

Now stop giggling and go to bed.

Your loving (though exhausted) mother x