Mummy, will you play with me?

These words seem to have become the soundtrack of my life lately, usually followed by a plaintive ‘pleeeease’. And it’s slowly, but surely, driving me bonkers.

I try to make some time every day to play with JP and Lou Loo, but it’s usually brief, due to the amount of cooking, cleaning and general housework that needs to be done on any given day. But even that small taste of time with me seems to whet their appetite and generate more and more demands for me to play with them. JP constantly tries to drag me out to the garden to play football, while Lou Loo keeps bringing me dolls to cuddle and dress. I do my best to get friends around to play so that they’re distracted, but as soon as the friends have gone home, it all switches back on. It’s like they’re watching me, waiting for me to stop moving for 2 seconds, so that they can pounce.

I’m increasingly finding that on Monday mornings, I look back on the weekend with a vague sense of regret, wishing that I had spent more ‘quality time’ with JP and Lou Loo. I never seem to focus on all the good stuff that I’ve done, like making home-made meals from scratch, cleaning the bathrooms so that an army of germs don’t take hold, lovingly ironing pyjamas and boxer shorts (I know I’m mad) and generally trying to catch up on all of the stuff I can’t get to during the week when I’m working. No, all I focus on is the things I've missed. Is this the nature of being female? Always wishing we could do more to care for our children? Mr G looks after the outdoor stuff, something that has become a little unspoken agreement between us and it works most of the time. Funnily enough though, I rarely ever hear JP or Lou Loo hounding him to play with them. He can just get on with his jobs uninterrupted and doesn't feel the slightest bit bothered about it. So, what is it about me? I know it’s flattering that they enjoy playing with me and want to spend more time with me, but it just creates a huge sense of guilt for me to carry around all weekend.

When I look back on my childhood, I can’t remember a single occasion when my mother played with me. And it never mattered. I just entertained myself and I was very happy. To ask my mother to play with me would have been a ludicrous suggestion – it’s just not what mothers were for. Don’t get me wrong, she was a bottomless well of hugs, encouragement and tenderness when I needed it. But she didn’t have time to play. Mothers at that time were far too busy keeping the house in order, feeding us, washing our clothes and scrubbing floors to get involved in entertaining us. In other words, all the stuff I do today while also holding down a job. And now, on top of all that, I’m expected to play with my children – because, by cultural osmosis, I’ve absorbed the notion that that’s what they really need from me in order to be truly nourished as human beings. Aaargh. Is the pressure never-ending?

And yes, I know that the time spent with them is more important than a clean house. But I’m not even talking about getting all of the luxury stuff done like hoovering behind the couch - just the basics that keep the place ticking over. When I was young, I was cast out into the garden for the day to find things to amuse me and I didn’t dare go near my mother unless there was a problem. It didn’t do me any harm, so should I try being equally firm with my two? Even so, I find myself yielding to them after the twentieth plea and probably feeding the problem.

As with many aspects of motherhood, there doesn’t seem to be any right answer.

Maybe one will just reveal itself to me someday soon and I’ll find eternal peace and time to have a cup of tea un-pestered.