Let's Pretend

All day long we had been telling her about the magical forest, so when we finally arrived at Muir Woods with our friends and their three-year-old daughter Julia, I felt obligated to... well, make the forest magical.

It wasn't hard to do. After all, the gigantic Redwood trees do seem other-worldly. Walking among the whispery-quietness of them feels like being transported onto the pages of a fairy tale.

Plus, playing pretend is something three-year-olds do really well. On her own, Julia mentioned Tinkerbell--a possible candidate for her Halloween costume-- asking whether the fairy lived in the forest. I couldn't deny the possibility, so I suggested that if she did, she might have a secret elevator in her majestic tree house (it did not occur to me until just now that, duh, fairies have wings... luckily that went over Julia's head too).

After a while, looking for Tink became tedious. Instead, Julia wanted to hide from her parents.

"Let's find a good spot," she'd yell (we were having too much fun to be whispery-quiet, even in the designated quiet section of the woods--apologies to the guests in our vicinity that day) before planting herself directly in her parents' sight and yelling "Surprise!"

Tiffany and I quickly taught her that good hiding spots are ones in which people can't see you. We took turns running ahead and kneeling with her behind fence posts and trees.

Eventually, Tiffany decided to curtail all the lifting-of-Julia-over-fence-posts-and-scampering-behind-boulders, offering up the delicious possibility that we hide by actually becoming the things we saw in the woods.

"Let's be trees," Tiffany whispered to Julia, taking her little arms and pointing them straight up into the air.

"Okay," Julia giggled.

"Let's be the bench," I suggested, lying her down on a bench seat before taking my position on the next bench over.

"Okay," Julia giggled.

"Let's be the forest floor," Tiffany said, and Julia and I dutifully lay down next to her in the dirt.

"Surprise!" we yelled just before the rest of our group stepped on us.

A little bit later, the smallest part of our forest-floor had to go to the bathroom.

Once, years ago while babysitting, I led a six-year old back in time across a sewage pipe suspended over a litter-filled creek. I don't remember how far back in time we were going, but on the way there, my charge slipped, falling into the muck below. I dashed down the side of the creek bed to pull him out.

"I want a bath," he said through gritted teeth, with half of someone's discarded blueberry muffin plastered to his chest.

Which just goes to show. Pretending can only get you so far. One minute you're the forest floor. The next minute you're holding a three-year old over a public toilet. One minute you're an intrepid time traveler. The next you're a babysitter taking a boy for a bath.