by Maggie Downs posted in Life

I am sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor with my 3-year-old son.
Joining us are two stuffed animals -- one a seal that my son named ContaDontaSaurus, the other a cat named Pineapple. There are also three robot magnets. Their names are Dinglebutt, Quincy, and Not Yet. Scattered about are enough mini trains to populate the island of Sodor several times over and gazillions of Legos.
"Let's play!" my son says, and it's a sentence that strikes fear in my heart.

I love my son. I cherish our time together. I hate playing with him.
My son holds Pineapple up, and we make some small talk with Not Yet. It's worse than the conversation I have with the dentist when she asks, "So how are things going"" as she jams cold metal instruments into my mouth. It's excruciating, and I wish I didn't have to play along. I mean, what does a cat have to say to a robot anyway" (If you're curious: Pizza. They talk about pizza.)
We carry on for a few minutes like that until I make some excuse and scurry off to the kitchen to start dinner. I'm relieved, but I also feel guilty about that relief.
To be clear, I don't hate all types of play with my child.
My son and I go adventuring, take scent walks to smell the flowers in our neighborhood, make road trips to the beach, and toss sand dollars into the ocean. We run around the park, spend hours at the library, visit the art museum and talk about what we see. We've never met a trail we ...