A Ball Is Not Just A Ball

My beautiful Ro has a strange obsession, which I hesitate to share because of its subject matter. She has an overwhelming desire to be older than she is. (This is not the strange part.) But while some kids just role play the part of "Mommy", Ro is a method actor. She gets into the role by taking on the look of a Mommy. And I am not just referring to the high heels she has perfected walking in by the time she was two. I am not surprised about the insurmountable amount of clothing that seems to go missing from my closet and drawers that I continuously need to sift out of the dress up pile. I know just where to go if my purse is not in its regular dumping spot.

I am not taken aback by the frequent questions that begin, "When I am a mommy..." I already know that everything I own, everything I wear, every tube of lipstick I have, every piece of jewelry I frequent will undoubtedly be claimed for proprietary by Ro for her future Mommyhood. She also seems to know which other four year old will be her husband. She has it all planned out. But there is one thing, no make that two things she can not seem to wait for.

Here is the strange part. For the past year or so, Ro has spent countless hours of playtime, endowing herself - with balls. Sometimes they are small super balls. Sometimes they are tennis ball size. Sometimes the balls are not even the same size. She does not discriminate. If she finds balls, they will end up in her shirt. It never gets tiring. I laugh every time. And when she is asked why she likes to place balls in her shirt, she very simply replies, "I want to be a Mommy".

I believe her curiosity with "balls" began when Ate was born and she noticed that this baby was not drinking out of a sippy cup like she did. She pointed to my chest one day and asked "What's that?" Although I am typically the Mom who shares the appropriate anatomical words with my children, I gave her a more generic reference this time, to save me from any possible future embarrassing moments. (And a good thing I did. When on an airplane a couple months later, infant crying, Ro yelled out, "He wants a drink from your body.") So it was smart on my part, to just tell her, "That is my body."

Although, now at age four, she still refers to her "balls" as her bodies, which is kind of weird.

"When I grow up, will I have bodies like you Mommy?"

"Well Ro, you most probably will have bodies, but whether it's like mine or not, depends on which family genes you got."

Of course, this incredible desire of hers, to grow into a Mommy, can come in handy when trying to raise a healthy child.

"Take your vitamin Ro, so you can grow bodies."
"Eat your broccoli Ro, so you can grow bodies."
"Get a good nights sleep Ro, so you can grow bodies."
"Brush your teeth Ro."

"Why, will it help me grow bodies."

"Ummm, yeah, I am sure in some way the two are connected, so brush your teeth."

I know that someday this phase will pass and I will only have the memories of Ro sifting through a bin of balls, trying to find just the right ones to fit her mood, or to fit her shirt. I actually have some great pictures of this phase of Ro's. Only I could never publicly publish them for fear of being arrested for promoting some strange child exploitation. So I will keep it to myself and relish every last moment of these incredibly imaginative years.