Imagination runs wild, but that’s OK

(Image by Jack Moreh/Freerangestock.com)

After I picked up my daughter from school earlier this week, she tossed her backpack into the seat next to her and buckled herself into her chair. We each shared how our day was going, then we listened to the radio. After a few minutes of music, I thought I heard my daughter say, “No, no, Max.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I’m pretending Max is here with us,” my daughter explained. Max is our dog.

“Oh,” I answered. “That’s sweet.”

On the ride home, she pretended to pet Max, and on occasion, “Max” would try to hop up into the front seat. “Whoa, Max,” she’d say, while trying to hold him back by his collar. “Mommy’s trying to drive!”

I smiled all the way home. I am in awe of imagination; mine was never that vivid. My big sister was the imaginative one. She was the one, for instance, who figured out that we could use our roller skates as cars for our dolls.

My daughter has always had an active imagination. I’ve seen her pretend to be kittens, puppies and cheetahs. When she was 2 years old, she had an imaginary playmate, which she called, “Baby Horse,” but one day, “Baby Horse” went to the farm and never came back. She pretends to send me email when we’re in the car sometimes, telling me, “Mom, I just sent you a video of bubbles in the sky,” and then she’ll swipe across the air in front of her as if there were a huge touchscreen tablet hanging from the ceiling.

When I can, I like to play along with her imaginative games. I pretended to hold the reins for “Baby Horse,” and I’ll “send” a reply every time she “sends” me something from her imaginary computer.

It’s one of the ways we play together.