The Effects of Turquoise

Just Imagine...

As I've mentioned in a previous post, most situations have positive and negative aspects.  We can apply this to Sophia's recent illness.  The good news is Sophia is feeling much better.  She has been ill with Scarlett Fever, which is basically Strep Throat with an added bonus in the form of an itchy rash.  Apparently, some unlucky people are allergic to the toxins released by Group A Streptococcal bacteria.  The allergic reaction causes the rash.  Fascinating!  The antibiotics she is taking are clearing up the infection which is making the rash shrink.  Since she is feeling more like herself, she is ready to play.  The bad news is that playing with Sophia requires a lot of imaginative play.  The girl is creative.  Me?  I am not.

I've never been creative or imaginative.  Even as a child, when imagination is supposed to come naturally, I struggled to tap into the unknown.  I have so many childhood memories of growing frustrated with my older brother because he was lost in his own mind, while I was left standing in the realistic present.  I remember one interaction vividly.  I was five; he was seven.  I had been "playing" in my room, which consisted of reading my favorite non-fiction text set and organizing my books by height and color.  I wondered what he was up to, so I ventured into his room.  He had bunk-beds, which provided an endless scaffold for his imaginative adventures.  There he sat on the bottom bunk, wearing an orange motorcycle helmet.  His knees were slightly bent, and both feet rested on the inside of the bunk-bed ladder.  His hands were stretched out in front of him, grasping an invisible object, which I immediately recognized as a steering wheel due to his hands being placed in the appropriate ten and two positions.  His body was shaking, and he was making a strange "brrrrrrrmmmmm, grrrrmmmm, drmmmm" series of sounds.

"What are you doing?" I inquired.

"Brrrmmmmm, click, shrrmmmmmm," he ignored.

I walked around the side of his bed, grasped his shoulder, and shook it.  

"Can I play too?" I begged.  He was my older brother, and I was always seeking his attention and approval.

Swiftly, he jerked the "wheel" to the side, began pushing his feet up and down on the ladder, and used his right hand to manipulate an invisible gear shift.  He began narrating his near-death collision with a fellow driver.  It was a brutal crash, with metal and glass flying in every direction.  People were screaming.  Tires were screeching.  There was fire.  He quickly began releasing what appeared to be a series of buckles around his waste and torso.  I was terrified!  I didn't know if he was going to escape the blistering flames!  The last buckle was stuck.  Should I help?  I stood frozen, captivated by the horrific scene unfolding before me.

"Tell my wife I loved her," he bellowed into the nonexistent headset in his helmet.

Suddenly, the last stubborn buckle released.  He climbed through the open space between the ladder and the wall, fell to his knees, and collapsed in a heap on the carpet.

After his pit crew hoisted him above their heads to carry him to safety, he was given a thorough medical evaluation by the waiting paramedics.  He miraculously escaped the event without a scratch.  He was released from the medic tent, only to find the loving embrace of his supportive wife.  The entire time he was switching from character to character, laying out a story so detailed even I could follow along, I stood statuesque by the door.  I was merely an audience member to his nail-biting production.  When the scene ended, he turned to me and warned "Don't ever do that again.  You made me crash."

Had I really made him crash?  Was he so consumed by his imagination that the outside stimuli influenced the storyline, or was I just a scapegoat for the tragic collision?  Years later I asked him about that particular event, but he didn't really recall it.  My brother's entire childhood was one of imagination and drama.  Not surprisingly, his love for theatrics has followed him to adulthood, and he has even chosen a career that allows him to pretend for pay.  It is a dream come true for him, and truly the only job he would ever want.  He is a gifted storyteller.  

As much as I struggled to pretend as a child, I struggle even more as an adult.  I am a very concrete, logical thinker.  This is the reason I prefer non-fiction texts over fiction.  My least favorite genre is fantasy.  If it isn't real, I just can't "see" it.  When I became a mother, I was forced to play pretend, and I've gotten better at it through the years.  There are still moments when I pull too much reality into my play, but luckily I have my Sophia to urge me "Pretend, Mommy, pretend."  When that happens, I close my eyes and see my brother, in his orange motorcycle helmet, racing in the Indianapolis 500 from the bottom bunk of his bed and I give it my best shot.  Just imagine...