I Write. You Read.

Recently, Simon and I have hosted a picnic on Sesame Street, visited the moon, avoided an alligator that was slinking around the dark corners of the house and skidooed into Wacky Wild World to find the letters “H-O-M-E” — just like Joe and Blue — and played “scary lion” for a good fifteen minutes straight. On a daily basis, I observe our boy acting out a scene that can only be fully experienced within his mind’s eye. At age two years and seven months, Simon’s imagination is in full effect.

Simon has been pretending for awhile now, but it really didn’t hit me how vivid his fantasies have become until maybe a month or so ago. I was sitting on the couch, watching TV or something, and Simon came running into the living room with his toy-sized basketball, a faux-leather cuff around his arm and a toy gold medal (reading “I’m a Winner!”) around his neck. Before I could comment on his choice of costume, Simon inserted the medal into his mouth, blew, and threw the ball out in front of him. It took me a few seconds, but I quickly realized that he was acting out one of his favorite episodes of Blue’s Clues, the one where Joe is the soccer coach/referee. Simon was pretending to be Joe. The medal was a whistle. The basketball was a soccer ball. I presume the cuff was a watch like Joe used to time the game or maybe a sweat band. The details aren’t as important as the idea that Simon was transporting himself into another world right before my eyes. And he invited me to play along.

Without regard to how he may appear, Simon throws himself into the worlds he creates with abandon. As an adult, I sometimes wish for the same lack of self-conciousness when doing anything creative, but it’s a lot more difficult with nearly thirty-two years of life experience under my belt.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have an imagination. Boy, do I ever. But I rarely have the time or energy to indulge myself with complete immersion into fantasy. I can’t remember the last time I left this world behind and truly visited another one; I used to do it all the time as a kid. Those wrinkled bed sheets and blankets were rocky badlands perfect for my action figures to explore on their ATVs. The big jungle gym in the school playground was, in fact, a multi-decked interstellar starship, complete with a failing hyperspace drive that required contortions and last-second heroics to repair. The danger was real, for a brief moment in time.

As an adult, these wonders are not completely lost to me, but they require a lot more work to create. I play Dungeons & Dragons with a regular group of friends once a week, and it’s refreshing to just play for awhile, without concern for what anyone thinks about it. But that’s based on rules, books upon books full of rules, and demands hours of preparation to keep it going smoothly. Closer to the free-minded mindscapes of yesteryear is creative writing, making up stories out of nothing. Far from the unfettered ramblings of a child, however, writing has become something else that requires work. Time must be set aside, focus must be applied, and energy must be expended. All three seem to have finite quantities, and I find myself continually pulled to the “easy” ways to use them up, just in performing day-to-day activities. At the end of the day, I’ve got very little left for fun.

In the end, I think it’s just a part of parenthood to re-live my glory days through the lives of my children. I’m fortunate enough to share these journeys with Simon–and eventually Phoebe–and see the world through their eyes. It allows me a nice visit, with the added benefit of knowledge that passages into the Land of Make Believe are precious resources, to be treasured, preserved and experienced with genuine wonder, because they become harder to traverse as time stretches into the future.