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I went upstairs this morning to find our bedroom door was shut. I opened it to see my two boys sitting on a trunk that we keep near the windows. They were sitting side by side, quietly looking out the window into our backyard.
"That looks fun," I said. "What are you guys doing? Looking out at the yard?"
"We are flying on an airplane," Arie told me.
"Oh," I said and then remembered how earlier in the morning they had asked me how much plane tickets were and then found paper slips to act as tickets and gave me $3000 in pretend cash to pay for them.
I still marvel at the imagination of children, remembering my own childhood and the games and stories I came up with and how vivid and easy it all seemed to me then to see what was not there. When my kids ask me to engage in imaginary play now I just can't do it. I go along with them, trying to be a part of their story but I'm not really there -- I am still firmly grounded in the unimaginative world of adults. The guest room is the guest room -- not the outside where Mr. Red Cape and Mr. Grey Cape do battle with the forces of evil. The couch is a couch and not some hill to climb or car to drive. My empty hands do not hold paper money, or magic rocks or lost keys, they are empty. My children have this amazing world that only they can see and I each time they remind me of this, I thank them silently for reminding me that I used to have one too.
"That looks fun," I said. "What are you guys doing? Looking out at the yard?"
"We are flying on an airplane," Arie told me.
"Oh," I said and then remembered how earlier in the morning they had asked me how much plane tickets were and then found paper slips to act as tickets and gave me $3000 in pretend cash to pay for them.
I still marvel at the imagination of children, remembering my own childhood and the games and stories I came up with and how vivid and easy it all seemed to me then to see what was not there. When my kids ask me to engage in imaginary play now I just can't do it. I go along with them, trying to be a part of their story but I'm not really there -- I am still firmly grounded in the unimaginative world of adults. The guest room is the guest room -- not the outside where Mr. Red Cape and Mr. Grey Cape do battle with the forces of evil. The couch is a couch and not some hill to climb or car to drive. My empty hands do not hold paper money, or magic rocks or lost keys, they are empty. My children have this amazing world that only they can see and I each time they remind me of this, I thank them silently for reminding me that I used to have one too.