I don’t remember having a playroom as a child, but now, every house seems to have one, including ours. When we bought our home it seemed frivolous to have a room dedicated to storing all of our kids’ toys, but after nine years of mothering, the playroom hasn’t just been a place to store toys, its been our happy space and where I spend most of my time, especially on the floor.
Maybe if I pushed the rewind button on my life, I could count how many hours I have spent playing playing on the playroom floor. I hope it’s close to a thousand (not including the thousands of hours we spent picking up the playroom floor).
The playroom floor is where I have lined up cars and trucks, built race tracks and tall block towers. It’s where I have attended tea parties, rocked sleeping babies, and colored princess pictures. It’s where I have watched magic tricks, organized magnet dolls, and listened to a noisy rocking horse. It’s also where I have shed tears and laid down in exhaustion. It’s where my daughter took her first steps and where we watched out the window for Grandma and Grandpa to arrive. In fact, here I am, writing from the playroom floor.
Perhaps the great philosopher Plato said it best: You can learn more about a child in one hour of play than you can in one year of conversation.
I am so glad God immersed me in motherhood and let me live life on the playroom floor. I am so glad He let me see them through His eyes as we played. I am so glad He trusted me with them.
But . . . what happens when my kids grow up? Will I get rid of the playroom? Will I use the room for something else? Will I donate all their toys?
No, I won’t. Because my grandchildren will be on their way for a visit, and I will be waiting for them—on the playroom floor.