Effort

Baby Girl made a fairy door the other day.  In case you don't know a fairy door is a door you can either buy or make, you attach it to a wall in your house and then fairies come and leave you notes and presents. I love her imagination and whimsy and I love to cultivate it (I can go on a soap box forever about how important I think it is) Yet in my head I groan because basically it means more effort from me. Baby Girl wrote the fairies a note "do you have a potion that will help with my allergies?"  

See heres the problem, on a scale of 1-10 the amount of energy I have to put into this is a one. or possibly less then a one. Heres another problem Two years (and almost three months) ago the amount of energy and effort I put into this kind of stuff on a scale of 1-10 was a 20.  Dan and I wholeheartedly believed in building her imagination. Thats how you get the next J.K. Rowling. The first seven years of her life were full of magic and wonder and mystery. When Baby Girl was three we made a fairy house together. Tinker bell would visit that house regularly and sleep in the little bed and eat bits off the cookie and leave Baby Girl presents.   We have actual video of the Easter bunny coming into our house. We visit leprechaun parks and look for Bigfoot on hikes. We have a fairy garden in our yard.  The tooth fairy has left her a note to go with every single tooth shes lost. They are on tooth shaped paper even.

One day in the fall before Dan died he texted me this elaborate plan.  "I'm almost home. I need you to take Baby Girl into the back yard to play. You need to stand near her window. When I rattle the blinds thats your Q. say you saw a burst of light and some pixie dust coming from her window." Ya ok sounds like an excellent plan to me.  So we did so. Baby Girl squealed "maybe it was tinkerbell" and ran into her bedroom.  Tinker bell had indeed been there and left behind a branch covered in frost. A sign that snow was on the way. That was the last time tinkerbell visited.

Then this thing happened. A few short weeks later Dan was dead. He was the other half of my imagination.  Half of my imagination (if not more) died with him.  I had nothing in me left. That part that loved imagination was too tired to go on. Too tired to put any effort into anything but breathing. Too tired to play fairies and make believe. Too tired to have tinkerbell visit anymore.  I was focused on things like breathing, and getting dressed, feeding us, you know silly stuff.  I could not put any effort into imagination. As much as I wished I could I had no more effort to give. Tinker bell didn't come back and visit. I guess she won't grow up to be J.K. Rowling after all. It makes me sad, I loved that magical part of us, Like everything else it will never bethe same again.

Then she made a fairy door. Then she wrote them a letter.  Ok I have to do something, I have to find the energy to put in the effort to make the fairies come. Otherwise she's doomed to a lifetime of no imagination.  Ok this is what I'm gonna do. I will put some honey in a little vile with a note that says take one drop everyday to help with allergies. That will be good enough, not awesome but good enough.  I didn't have a little vile so I called my sister procureer of odd things like that. "What are we doing with it?" she asked. so I told her my plan. "UHHHH we can do better then that" she said. 

Later that night, out side her fairy door appeared a small vile of oil covered in fairy dust and a very tiny note. "For allergies, put on human sides of head, on human wrists, or on big human feets, Love, your nomadic fairy friends." Up thats it, thats the effort I need to cultivate her imagination, thats the effort I used to have. My sister and brother in law did all that. They make a great fairy team, just like Dan and I used too. Part of me thinks that piece of me is gone forever, like Dan. We did our magic together, it's not as strong with just me and it will never be the same again. 

To say that Baby Girl was excited about her fairy gift is a ginormous understatement.


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