An Alternative Text

Growing up, my sister, Jessica, and I preferred one another’s company to the overly structured play that adults tend to push. Sure baking with Mom could be fun, if you consider “fun” as being benched on the sidelines for fear that an eggshell may make its way into the batter (the horror!). Jess and I had a better time mixing up magic elixirs for the babysitter—a toxic combination of green food coloring, ketchup, horseradish, o.j., raw egg and burnt toast crumbs. We threatened the sitter that we wouldn’t go to bed if she didn’t try it. We never saw her after that.

Mom never would’ve tasted the elixir. She wouldn’t have helped make it either. She’d say we were being wasteful, silly, disgusting—you know, all the adjectives that best sum up what it means to be a kid. We weren’t interested in perfectly adorned cupcakes or brownies without burnt edges—all that is so average, so adult. So Jess and I went on our merry way, making up schizophrenic storylines for Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake. The narratives were filled with sex, murder, violence and meangirlishness—“General Hospital” had nothing on us.

When Mom grew lonely, she interrupted our play. Picking up Lemon Meringue, she started to suggest that we hand sew little dresses from tissue or some other Holly Hobbyish task. Jess and I moaned, “Mom, you’re ruining everything!”

Mom’s heart was broken. I say, “Lucky Mom.”

With one child, I spend an inordinate amount of time playing with superheroes and princesses. And I won’t lie: it’s torture. Until you’ve spent four hours pretending that Sleeping Beauty is feeding her Pretty Pony an apple, you can’t judge. If you have done this and liked it, you are a very sick person.

When I let Ava take the playtime reins, the dolls just stare at each other until she yells, “Make them talk, Mommy!” But usually she’s not placated by my feeble attempt at dialogue: (in horsey voice) “Yum. Yum. Thanks for the apple, Sleeping Beauty. Oh, boy.”

Ava wants action. Story.

At which point I reluctantly go to one of two default storylines:

1.     The superheroes adopt a Littlest Pet Shop

2.     The princesses get married

Seriously, that’s all I’ve got. “Yo-Gabba-Gabba” has better storytelling. But I hope that I can bore her into submission, and have her beg me to turn on the TV.

Tragically, Ava likes my lame stories. So much that we have to repeat it again and again until I’m brought back to consciousness by her screaming, “Wake up, Mommy!”

Gee, however did I drift to sleep amidst all the drama?

Since I didn’t see this vicious cycle ending anytime soon, I decided to amp the stories up a bit by giving them a social agenda.

When Batman mistreats his Littlest Pet Shop, an agent from child protective services (Catwoman) scratches his eyes out. We’ve expanded our marriage ceremonies to accommodate Batgirl and Wonder Woman’s marriage as well as Batman and Superman (a natural match). She easily accepts all of this, but draws the line at the union of Nightwing and Robin because “Nightwing is Robin when he’s all growed up, so he can’t marry himself,” she explains. (I check these facts with my husband and he confirms that Nightwing can’t marry Robin unless, of course, they live in alternate universes.)

Ava and I play like this for an hour and I don’t drift off once. I’m expanding her mind while keeping myself entertained. When she finally tires of the drama, we go to the kitchen to whip up a magic elixir to give to her dad.