“Do you like playing with your toddler?” the podcast lady asked, and I cringed.

I so, so didn’t.

Don’t get me wrong! She’s a good time. She’s brilliant and fabulous and the light of my life. She has brought me all the best parts of existence, and I adore her even beyond that.

Do I like playing with her, though? Do I like endless knock knock jokes that lack punch lines? Do I enjoy the monotonous drone of pretend games that must go according to her rules?

Eh.

Sometimes.

She’s gotten more fun since she started playing board games, I can tell ya that much.

She sometimes even sits for a kids chapter book.

My favorite parts of our relationship though are the ones that happen on the fly. The statements like, “you see faeries with your heart, Mama.”

The comments like, “I think you would look much betterer with a purple and green wedding dress, tv lady,” as we’re watching Say Yes to the Dress, some of the only television we can agree on.

She’s smart as a whip, funniest person I’ve ever met, and unfortunately four, so like, kinda boring, too.

It’s ok.

It’s totally ok, I’ve learned. I’m not my mother. I’m not the goddess of motherhood. I am human. I am bored by pretending to be on an animal train, and she’s not good at jokes yet. It’s ok.

I love that kid so much.