I put it off for as long as I possibly could---the slimming down and organization of our fourth bedroom. We established it as the playroom when we moved in with our little girls six years ago, but I was finally accepting that, at ages 15 and 12, they were doing far less playing than ever before. Instead, they were spending their rare down time between school and extracurriculars on audio books, art projects, texting with friends, Marvel movies, and (a total given) analyzing Taylor Swift songs. As you do, at 15 and 12.
Each time I walked by the playroom, I felt my heart seize up in pain. It wasn't heart attack pain; rather, it was heartache pain. Sometimes I wonder how similar these two truly are on a pain scale. While others might see Legos, Playmobil, American Girl dolls, and Calico Critters, I saw thousands of hours of imagination. I saw in-depth stories in make-believe worlds, elaborate constructions, and connections with friends. I heard little voices enacting invitations for adventures among unicorns, resolving tensions between fairies, and making plans amidst miniature animal families. I could feel the tangled doll hair between my fingers as I showed my daughters how to braid, while I sat upon a stray Keva Plank. I replayed treasured memories of long eyelashes atop porcelain cheeks as a little one looked down to saddle a miniature horse; of mismatched clothes selected by budding fashionistas; even of petty squabbles over whose turn it was to use the bigger barn.
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