You are five years old. I took you in for your annual check-up today. When I mentioned it this morning, you had absolutely no reaction, which pleasantly surprised me. But when we checked in at the doctor’s office and I said we’re here for you, not Little Sister (who is still young enough that she gets stabbed with a needle every few months), you lost it. You screamed a high pitched scream, stomped your feet, and screamed again. Then you started to cry and your mouth formed a rainbow-shaped pout. People in the office pretended not to notice, but I could feel the I’m-glad-that’s-not-my-kid glances like a sunburn on my neck.
“Brooklyn?” the nurse called. You screamed and stomped some more and refused to move down the hallway. I promised you an ice cream cone in exchange for your cooperation. You agreed and moved forward, a look of misery still shrink wrapped to your face. The ice cream bribe subdued but didn’t calm you, and tears were on your cheeks as the nurse took your measurements, then she led us to the princess room decorated with stickers of Mulan and Cinderella and Pocahontas.
As we waited for the doctor, I began filling out the assessments on the iPad the nurse had given me. I know the purpose of these is to look for red flags—signs you aren’t developing properly in some social or physical or mental way. As if it would take a survey for me to realize that if you were regularly banging your head against the wall, that would be a problem.
“We’ve got the test results,” the nurse would say. “Your child bangs her head against the wall. And that’s a problem.”
You played a game on my phone and Little Sister squirmed on my lap as I answered the questions, the multiple choice options for which were always, sometimes, or never.
Does your child follow the rules?
Does your child share with others?
Does your child take things that don’t belong to them?
Does your child show empathy?
I answered sometimes to nearly all of the questions, the only logical response for any five-year-old, and probably most adults. And then I came to this question:
Does your child daydream too much? Always, sometimes, or never?
Do you daydream too much? What kind of demon writes these assessments? You are five years old! You are in an almost constant state of daydreaming. With plastic and plush props you create imaginary worlds and characters who make trouble and solve problems. In one hand you hold a string of beads that is a mother jackwing (a mythical creature that princesses travel on) and in the other hand you hold its baby. A stray ribbon is the great division between kingdoms. A marble is a gem containing untold power.
Your daydreams are sacred to witness. Like a baby’s naps, I tiptoe around them and only interrupt in case of emergency. I’m envious of the way your thoughts flow, uninhibited by the iron gates of the Land of What Sounds Reasonable, which exists directly in front of the exits of all adult minds. Reckless imagination is a rare and wonderful place to be, so when you’re five—or 25 or 75—is there ever too much daydreaming?
Never, I answered.
We got the promised ice cream and went home, back to the safe stage of your imaginings. Go there, Girl, and be untethered from the world. It will never be so easy for you as it is right now.
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