“Play with me mommy,” she pleaded for the third time in an hour.
I’d been cleaning the house before sitting down to do some computer work, tasks that are both much more effectively accomplished if Skye is playing well by herself. Usually she is more than happy to do so, but today was just not one of those days.
I again encouraged her to play alone for just a little bit longer, then promised to come play too. After some heavy negotiation, she conceded defeat and went back to her dolls. While it enabled me to get my work done faster, I have an ulterior motive for wanting her to play by herself from time to time.
Partially, it’s because I love listening to her give animation to her toys. She has the most wonderful imagination; she spends hours sometimes playing dress up and make-believe. Any animal she can think of she will pretend to be, and is completely authentic about it. She loves to play fetch while being a puppy.
But the biggest reason is, I want to revel in that beautiful imagination of hers.
Allow it to blossom and never squash it. I know it’s likely the world will make attempts to accomplish that anyway, and even be somewhat successful. None of us can boast the imaginations we explored with as kids. And when I hear Skye talking for her dolls or meowing like a cat, she reminds me so much of myself as a child.
My imagination could make me anything, take me anywhere, and I still cherish all the memories I have of my own make-believe scenarios. On any given day I was a pirate princess decked out in the jewels of my spoils, or a pioneer mother trying to keep my family safe and fed while on a wagon train.
Another part of my vivid imagination was my ability to stubbornly hold on to my belief in all the great childhood myths. My friends started making fun of me in grade school because I was still insistent that Santa Claus was real.
While inside I knew the truth as well as any of them, I started recognizing my mom’s handwriting in all of Santa’s signatures years before, still I was determined to hold on to that fancy.
I want so badly for my daughter’s imagination to reach the same heights. Especially because she is an only child, and I have no intentions of making her a big sister anytime soon so she should get used to playing alone.
I may be doing it completely wrong by encouraging her to play by herself, but sometimes I think the main reason my imagination was able to take me to such wondrous places as a child was because I played by myself so often when I was young.
I was not an only child, I had two older brothers who were my first and favorite playmates. But the key words in that sentence are older and brothers. It rarely took long before their games were either too painful or too gross for me to want to partake.
Growing up on a ranch miles from town ensured endless possibilities for my imagination to develop. I quickly learned ways to entertain myself and practiced those skills long into my adolescence.
I still played with my Barbies at home and make-believe on the playground until I was in the fifth grade.
At recess while the cool kids were playing basketball or swinging, I was the weird girl running around in the grass pretend-playing horses. Galloping around and tossing my head, even throwing in a heartfelt neigh or snort now and again. Let’s be clear though, I was not one of the cool kids on that playground.
That was the first time I had ever experienced the blunt end of bullying. They laughed at the little weird girl pretending to be an animal, and made whinnying sounds behind their hands when they passed me in the halls. I didn’t understand. I was just being myself, playing the same make-believe games we’d all been playing just a year or two before.
I eventually learned not to let their laughter or sideways glances hinder my happiness, but when sixth grade rolled around I was no longer playing pretend animals at recess. I was swinging on the swings with the other girls, still imagining I would any second take wing and fly away, only now I kept my musings to myself.
Being the weird girl was not a title I would’ve chosen for myself at the time, though now it makes me smile. I am still that little weird girl, and my imagination can still take me to wondrous places. That doesn’t mean I don’t worry that one day my daughter will be the one getting made fun of for her creativity, or being called names. Hopefully when that time comes she can be slightly consoled by my stories, and the fact that her mom was quite possibly the weirdest of them all.
Even if someday the kids on Skye’s playgrounds poke the same fun at her imaginary worlds, I want so badly for her to never stop believing in them. Her ability to create such vivid fun inside her mind is a skill that can take her far later in life.
Most of all I hope she grows to realize that other people’s opinions don’t define her. Her imagination can take her to amazing heights, and those people who make fun have likely never traveled so high. They can’t possibly know what they’re missing. As long as Skye lets her imagination grow and believes in her dreams, there’s nothing she can’t do.
The sky is the limit, and anything under its wide expanses that she can imagine, can be real if only she believes hard enough.
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About the Author
This month we are delighted to partner with the State of Montana on a really cool national story-telling campaign called “THE SKY'S THE LIMIT.” For Montana, this project – including a special edition of Mamalode magazine and accompanying video series – features heartfelt stories about life, work and play under the big sky. But whether we are here or there, sky's the limit is about dreams come true, being your best self, letting your imagination lead and perhaps, conquering the impossible.