We choose to have a family night for Valentine’s Day this year. Each of us pick an activity we want to do together as a family. My husband makes heart-shaped pizza. My son has us all play one of his favorite soccer video games together on Roblox. (I fail spectacularly!). My daughter wants to watch two episodes of Bluey.
Then I close the evening with one of my favorite mom activities: looking at videos on the TV of them when they were little. Cue eye rolls from a ten and thirteen-year-old. It always starts that way and then I glance at them a few minutes later. They’re grinning and laughing, remembering life in the different places we’ve lived.
We scroll through pictures and videos from Valentine’s Day past. They giggle at how often Dad makes heart-shaped pizza. We smile at brother’s first Valentine’s Day outfit and sister’s homemade crafts. Then we land on a video of ten-year-old sister unveiling a handmade creation as a gift. A puppet theater! She even made puppets to go with it.
Brother snuggles with me on the recliner. He leans close and whispers, “Don’t tell her, but I miss playing with her like that.”
My heart folds in on itself. I miss it too.
Watching little people become teenagers is weird. And wonderful. But definitely weird.
Later that evening, I pull his blankets up to his chin and sit on the edge of his bed. We talk about a big downside of screen time being less time for creative play with a sibling. We talk about teenage mood swings and how hard it can be to find a time when both of them are feeling ready to connect.
“Mom, can’t we stop all that teenage stuff?”
Oh sweet boy. You have no idea how many people have asked similar questions.
A few minutes later I say, “You know, we can have a no screen time tomorrow and you two can play together again. Just ask her.”
The teenager can be prickly and hard to pin down. Brother knows this and doubts asking her will work.
A few minutes later, I see paper airplanes flying from one bedroom to another, asking the other to play tomorrow. Giggles abound. Plans are hatched. My mama heart explodes.
Saturday morning arrives. Brother has a very early morning basketball game. An hour later, we get home and I sense the awkwardness between the kids. Both of them surveilling the other to see if moods are going to match up. It was so easy when they were in preschool and first grade. But now? They have so many off ramps to connection with others. They are not each other’s main play mate anymore. And they know it.
Part of me wants to make the moment happen for them. But I know it’s better if they sort it out themselves. I make it clear that devices are put away and I head upstairs to read a book.
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on my door and a voice says, “Mom, can we borrow all the blankets in your room?” Of course.
The next hour is filled with kids laughing and scraping furniture across the floor downstairs. Then I hear, “Mooooom! Can you come see our epic fort?”
A few minutes after our personal tour of the epic fort, they drift to a game of chess I’d set out on the table. Then about thirty minutes later, the moment is over. They drift to activities with friends in the neighborhood and I welcome the silence of a quiet home.
It’s holy ground to practice deep presence with these two humans. There were things about them being two and six and eleven that will forever be a part of my memory of life. It’s beautiful to watch them age, expand, and evolve. It invites me to do the same. Their growth prompts my growth.
I honor the grief that dances around the edges of it all. I honor the grief they notice as they journey.
“Mom, I miss playing with her.”
Here’s to the things we realize we miss that we can still enjoy in new ways.
Here’s to playing and wasting time on purpose.
Here’s to breathing in the giggles.
Love is so beautiful.
