Imagine.

During one recent evening, L came to me holding onto two stones that she had randomly picked from downstairs. Two black stones rested in her little palms, as her eyes eager and bright, asked if I could 'turn these stones into diamonds' for her to put on her crown.

My little girl has asked some of the oddest questions before, but this one totally floored me. Although children often think the world of their parents and our ability to make wrong things right again, this was obviously beyond the parental 'superpowers' that I owned. 

I could kiss away the pain of cuts and bruises. 

I could soothe sadness and angry red rashes better.

I could dry tears and hug away fears.

I could fix broken toys and turn a frown into a smile. 

But there was no way I could turn rocks into diamonds.

I didn't know how to react. I wondered if I should chuckle at her silliness, or encourage her little mind of magic and fairytales. Should I explain the harsh fact of reality, or indulge in her sense of wonder? 

Her mannerisms reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago. A little girl that was me, when I was an eager believer in all things magical.

When I was a little girl, I adored Walt Disney's movies. I'd marvel in all the magic that each show contained, and secretly imagined that I was a princess. I remembered The Little Mermaid most vividly because it was the last movie that I caught in the string of Walt Disney shows. 

I'd cringed whenever Ursala came on, and loved all the songs sung by Ariel, specifically 'Part Of Your World'. I memorised all the lyrics and sang when I was in the shower or when I was alone. Whenever I went swimming, I would dive down to the bottom of the pool and imagined myself touching the ocean floor.

Somewhere in between, I also gravitated towards books. I read several titles here and there, some books by Roald Dahl, and coincidentally chanced upon books titled The Little Princess and The Little Prince to name a few. The contents of these books are recalled in varying degrees of vagueness. But all that I remembered reading were books of fiction and fantasy. 

Of all my books, I remembered most the books of Enid Blyton's Enchanted Wood and the Faraway Tree. I'd delight myself in their world and imagined what it would be like climbing up the tree to have tea with Moon-face and his friends, or visit whatever lands that swung by at the top.

As I grew a little older into secondary school, grades, school work and hanging out with friends took up a big part of my life. I read less until I didn't read anymore. And once I graduated into the world of adulthood, fiction and fantasy had totally lost its hold over me. Reality in all its glory and responsibilities had crowded into my life and stealthily elbowed away the ability to dream and to believe. 

In its place, performances and figures held importance. Issues like how I could get moving on in life held importance. Facing my father's impending passing, held importance. 

Time was constantly and ruthlessly moving onwards. There was none left to look back, and to stop and dream. I had lost myself in the world of reality, until I lost the ability to believe.

I should have encouraged her sense of magic and weaved a tale of how a fairy might come and turn those stones into diamonds if she was good. Instead, my trigger response then was to launch into an explaination on why it was impossible to turn stones into diamonds. I watched as she walked away disappointedly, instantly regretful to have killed off a portion of her sense of imagination with my grown-up response.

Growing up into a realistic adult is great. But she is barely only five years old and adulthood is far away still for her. I'm sure she could be indulged with more years of wondrous, magical imagination before growing older.

L's recent request was a reminder of the magical moments that I once believed in, and the imagination that I used to own. I had a lovely childhood and I'd want nothing less for her to own.

Now, how do I turn two stones into diamonds?