One Morning a Month Ago

The magical make-believe world of nonsense and ridiculousness. This morning, Ollie made me wear a hideously tiny cowboy vest that was made for Cass two years ago. I pretended to try it on, just to humor him, and he pulled it up onto my back. The bottom edge came to the top of my shoulder blades, and I'm truly shocked I didn't rip out the seams. Then we put shiny capes over the vests. I had to wear the goggles (I was the caption, he insisted, and he was the first mate), and he carried around his new wooden crossbow and let me use the sword. "We are superhero cowboy pilots," he said. "I want the entire room to be our plane, not just the beds, OK?" 

"OK."

Cass' imaginative games were based on a world of made-up stories and narrative. We dressed up a little, and there was a decent amount of action, but mostly it was about painting the scene with words. His stories were elaborate and winding and he believed he was living the intricate plotlines every second of every story. Ollie's creative world is different: It's one of jumping and noises and major raucous. There's no real story, and that's what makes it so exciting! One minute I'm in charge of fixing the broken-down engine on the plane, and the next, we're hunting for rogue "badmen" cowboys who have apparently encroached on our territory to steal our horses. There's real sword-fighting and brazen swashbuckling and even when he's flying his bed across the sky, he's dramatically acting out every little tug of a lever and sudden turn with loud, strangely realistic sounds that come from somewhere deep in his gut. Oh this is serious business. Even if none of it makes any sense.

We played this way -- flying across the sky in our plane (please do not accidentally call it a spaceship), defending our open plains on horseback, and taking sudden naps at makeshift campsites -- for hours this morning. It was borderline insane, but still somehow exhilarating. We play like this every Monday (and sometimes Friday) morning when Cass is at school. When they're home together, they're best buddies and play for hours and hours. They play together constantly, but they don't really engage in this type of deep imaginary theatrics. No, this special ridiculousness is generally reserved for me, and not because Cass is too old either. I think their creative processes are too different, and to be fully immersed in imaginary play, you kind of need to be the boss, right? The writer, the director, and the actor. There would be too many skirmishes, too many creative differences. 

But I am not complaining. I couldn't be happier to be part of his world right now. I feel so extraordinarily lucky to have these days with him--just he and I (and not for much longer)--when he feels unguarded and free enough to be his full-blown silly, screwball self. And I can be present enough to play along.