Every recess, my best friend and I ran to The Tree at the back of the playground. We circled it three times and entered our world. Sometimes we escaped a spider’s web. Other times we traveled a tight rope in a circus. We went somewhere together, as long as we walked around that tree.

In the summer, we met in the middle of our street with our bicycles: her bike was red and mine was blue. As soon as we got on them, though, we were no longer school girls but “cops and robbers” or “Gold Medal winners.” As long as we stayed on our bicycles, we went somewhere.

When my friend wasn’t available, my brother and I opened our basement door and walked down. When we reached the third step, we entered Ijona (“ee-john-a”), a world beyond the solar system where my brother was King (I think) and “table” meant “chair.” Sometimes, by the third step, waves would splash our toes. Other times, we searched for the exit in a three-story castle, facing all sorts of challenges on our way. We went somewhere, as long as we reached the third step.

Somehow, though, my worlds — our worlds — disappeared. I learned to drive. I went to college. I got married. I moved 16,000 miles (literally — I moved from Chicago to Australia).

I was going places in life.

And yet, as an adult, I no longer go anywhere. Three steps into the basement only take me three steps down.

I didn’t realize I was missing it.

Last week, my eight-month-old found his reflection in a three-inch metal fixture on his bathtub. One moment he was splashing by himself: the next minute another bald baby was laughing with him.

He was fascinated by the baby. I watched as he leaned forward and tried to push his yellow sailboat through to that other world: the other baby tried to share his yellow sailboat at the same time, and they were unable to share. No matter: my son was happy to giggle together.

Now, every time I put him in the bathtub, I think about his reflection-friend. Will he remember? Will he seek out that magical world that is just waiting to delight him? He’s just now entering a world of infinite creativity.

My days of going places may be past, but now I get to experience a world of creativity through my child. I’m so excited to watch him go places I can now only imagine.

To my son, my daily delight

(True response to June Write-Away Contest “Going Places” at Scribbit.)