The Evolution of a Fun Mom

where I realize having fun is part of the healing, part of returning to myself, and part of the life I’ve been missing

As we turn into the tunnel on the highway our three-year-old pipes up from the back seat. “This tunnel is dawk and scaawee Dadda.” I turn and see his big blue eyes widen as we head into shadow.

Ryan looks back at him in the rearview mirror. “That just means we need to yell to scare the trolls away!” He starts yelling in his gruffest voice. Hunter joins him, and so does our daughter Evie. My voice catches in the back of my throat. The van blinks back into the sunlight and they’re laughing. I look at Ryan, and he grins and winks at me. I think, fun Dad, as I turn to look out my window. It comes so easily to him. And while I’m glad Ryan has this skill, it’s not the first time I’ve also been jealous of it. It’s not the first time I’ve wondered where my fun went.

A month ago I received a voice message from my old dance partner from Carnival Cruise Lines. I was washing dishes as his Australian lilt carried from the Gold Coast to my earbuds and he cackled about a memory of us cruising around Cozumel, Mexico. “You’d think I’d remember you in one of those gorgeous costumes you wore, or an evening gown but Nah. Crabtree, (my maiden name) I remember you with a camera slung around your neck, just laughing and laughing,” I remember that too. We laughed till our sides ached, and we wanted to puke. 

The highway radiates with Texas summer heat and dust as we speed toward home. I’m miles from the sandy shores of where I once boarded a cruise ship for work, and what feels like the distance to another galaxy of that woman who used to kick up her heels, throw her blonde hair back, and laugh easily. 

It felt easier to laugh without a worry in the world. Before the weight of raising tiny humans, a mortgage, a military husband with an intense billet, and what feels like news of a doomed planet drops daily. Nevertheless, I used to be fun, I think. It hasn’t been bad always. But somewhere amid the pandemic, a new baby, another move, deaths, an illness in our family, and a new diagnosis of dementia for my beloved Nana, my lightness and energy have been diminished. Like someone dropped a heavy blanket over me, and muffled my voice, my spirit, my heart.

Instead of fighting it, I curled up beneath it and closed my eyes. 

Instead of feeling it, I’ve pulled my responsibilities tighter around me. 

We bump into the driveway, and I start to help unload groceries and mentally tick through the tasks we need to do together before bedtime. Ryan chases the kids into the house. They giggle and scamper and I shuffle up with the heavy bags.

If an invitation came, would I play?

***

It’s a week later, and Hunter runs back up the astroturf hill at the children’s museum. I call up to him, “10 more minutes and then we’ve gotta go, buddy!” 

“Okay Mama!” he says, and drops to tuck his arms underneath his chest and roll. He tumbles right down until he’s on top of my feet. “Wow, you’re so fast,” I say and he tugs on my hand. “It’s your turn, Mama,” he says and I shake my head. “Oh, no, bud, I don’t think so.” I flex my left knee, which can still be sensitive after my knee surgery, and straighten my back, which tends to be a bit unreliable these days under strain.

But he keeps tugging. 

I drop my bag and walk up the hill.

“Alright, show me what I’m doing,” I say like I don’t remember. But I do (ish). The last time I can remember rolling down a hill was in middle school. I lay down on the scratchy faux grass and Hunter lays down uphill of me. He’s grinning like he can’t believe his good fortune. “On three,” I shout and say a silent prayer for all my limbs, discs, and joints.

“1-2-3!” 

As my body picks up momentum I hear my voice uttering, “Oh! My! Ouch! Oh!” but it’s mixed with guffaws of laughter. Hunter can’t stop, won’t stop laughing his deep belly chuckle. He’s had it ever since he was an infant, this ripple of joy that spreads out into the air and has made our whole family stop on numerous occasions to see what could be so enjoyable.

Today, what’s enjoyable is that I’m in his world. I land at the bottom of the hill like what I imagine a giraffe on ice skates might look like– neck strained and legs akimbo, but I’m laughing and so is he. And for the first time in a long time, I think about how Hunter smiled at me, at just four weeks old. It wasn’t one of those poop-toot smiles either. I walked him around in the stroller one morning talking to him, and he smiled at me. His cheeks spread and his mouth grinned and I still believe that somehow he knew as a July 2020 baby that we all needed his warmth, his belly laugh, his light. He hoped that the world was still a great place to arrive and be in.

I pull myself from the earth and pull Hunter into me. “Thanks, bud, that was fun. Let’s go get sister.” 

***

A month later I’m starting to get the hang of fun. I’m challenging myself to paint with the kids, to put on the music in the morning and dance, and to cover our countertops in flour to make hideous misshapen pretzels that taste delightful. I hide around a few corners to pop out and gently spook my eldest. I play “Dragon’s Lair” with Hunter the next time we are at the children’s museum, and we carry play shields with us up and down the castle, ducking and hurling our pretend spears. 

I’m not fun all the time, but I’m fun more of the time, and it’s made me feel better. I’m channeling my inner Chilly from Bluey. 

It isn’t just with the kids either. I’ve started to think about what I still find fun. I invite friends over and plan a girl's night out. I stay up watching a musical, or a woman-midlife-travel-movie (Julie + Julia or Under the Tuscan Sun are top faves). I make a trip to Trader Joe's just for dark chocolate Reese cups and fresh flowers. I asked Ryan to join me in the shower. 

And one day, as the first dark cloud of the summer rolls overhead, casting shadows on the parched brown grass of our backyard, rain starts to fall.

“Kids, come here!” I shout and throw open the back door. The drizzle turns into a glorious downpour. Before I can stop myself, I look at the kids and smile. 

I run and leap the two steps from the porch onto the wet earth. 

“Mom!” They shout. I stop and look at them. “Aren’t you coming?” I ask. We run circles. We play ring around the Rosie. My black t-shirt and green skirt stick to my body and I’m sure my mascara is running away from my eyelids down my cheeks. 

Fun Mom, I think. As we head inside to get dry Evelyn says, “I love this home, I LOVE this family!” 

I smile at her and say, “Me too.” And I mean it. 

As I wrap them in warm towels my kids snuggle into bundles onto the floor. I grab them dry clothes. It has been easier to stay one note every day to get through, to lean on bland and unfeeling in the face of strife. But easier isn’t always best. Sometimes easier just means less. 

How long have I shrugged and created the narrative that I’m a tired mom, an exhausted military spouse, and that I don’t have time for fun? Maybe I just needed time to remember that fun is part of the healing, part of returning to myself, and part of the life I’ve been missing. As I help the kids get changed, someone toots. I dramatically pinch my nose, and a toot expells up into the air again. We laugh until our sides ache. 

Fun Mom: Photo by Kei on Unsplash