That’s a good thing

I love beating my kids.
Before you call child protective services, let me explain.
I’m not the kind of mom who lets her kids win for the sake of their self-esteem. If my kids win, it’s because they earned it.
Candy Land? I whoop and holler when I nab the Queen Frostine card.
Tag? I run as hard as my short legs can carry me to catch the two children with even shorter legs and yell, “You’re it!”
Basketball? I trash talk like Charles Barkley.

I wish I could say this is part of my parenting philosophy. (OK, I don’t really have a parenting philosophy. But it sounds impressive, doesn’t it?)
But it’s mainly because I’m still a kid.
That’s the great thing about being a parent. Being a mom brought the child inside me back to life.
Thank goodness.

The year before my daughter was born, I went to my 10-year class reunion. On the way, I stopped to buy film. (Remember film?) When I checked out, the cashier asked where I was going all dressed up. I told her.
“Really? You look so much older than 28.” I smiled a fake smile then walked out mumbling a word that sounded like “itch” under my breath.
Here’s the thing. I didn’t really look older than 28. I just acted older — serious, reserved, dour. Boring.
Then Emma was born. I found myself fascinated with her wooden blocks. I started asking my husband how many blocks he could stack.

“I stacked 15 yesterday! Can you do that?” (He couldn’t. I rocked those blocks. I was sorry when she outgrew them.)
Then John came along. I rediscovered Lincoln Logs. I spent an entire Christmas morning building a Western logging town. (It takes total concentration to get those darn windows in the right spot.)
Now I bowl on the Wii. I’m the best Clue detective around. I race my kids to the nearest roller coaster, then scream my head off.
Some people never lose the child inside of them. I always envied them.
It took having children to remind me I was a pretty terrific kid once upon a time. In fact, I’m still a pretty terrific kid.

We just returned from a trip to Walt Disney World. Before we left I asked Emma if she thought she might be too old to want autographs from Mickey, Winnie the Pooh, and Cinderella.
“Are you?” she countered.
I answered by beating her to the line to meet Snow White.