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The Reality of Fantasy: When Magic's Moment Ends
By Kenneth Brock
Issue 116, Jan/Feb 2003

"I can't wait to get my very own magic set. It'll be so neat! Will it have a flying broom? I wish I'd asked Santa in time last year."

As I drove six-year-old Margaret and her four-year-old sister, Kate, to school, the older girl described in great and fantastical detail her plans for her magic set. It was clear that this Christmas would not go by without one. "I think if you write Santa by Thanksgiving, he'll have plenty of time to get you a set. Provided, of course, that you're a good girl," I added sagely.

"Daddy, you can drive in the mornings to school, and I'll fly above you. Then, after a few times, when I know the route, I can fly by myself to school. I can't wait. Do you think I should fly sitting on the broom sideways or with my legs on each side? Do you think Kate can sit behind me, or does she need her own broom?"

"I think you need to be six before you can fly your own broom," I said.

"Okay, then Kate can fly with me. I hope she won't fall, though. She'll have to hang on very tight." And on it went, until we pulled into our parking spot and walked up the winding path to the school's front door.

I didn't think much about this conversation in the hours between morning drop-off and afternoon pickup. However, like a good Swiss timepiece, Margaret resumed exactly where she had left off. As she clambered into the car, ready to head home with her sister, she asked how big the magic set would be. She then imagined how finding her way to and from school would be a little tricky at first, but thought that, with my help, she'd get there just fine. The whole line of conversation fascinated Kate, who was willing to accompany Margaret on the broom and wait until she was six to have her own means of transport.

It was a funny conversation. Usually Margaret is too "smart" to believe something so fantastical, so unreal. Despite that, I gave it the careful attention she wanted, answering each question with a thoughtful response. I didn't pay much attention, though, to the real-life seriousness of it. I assumed it would pass, as so many things do when you're young.

Over the next several days, the magic set and all of its accoutrements were the highlight of our discussions. Margaret asked me what the broom would look like: Would it be a crooked old stick with frayed bristles, worn from years of prior use, or a fancy new model with all the latest technology? She asked about a cauldron: How big would it be? What kind of metal would it be made of?

The fun ended on the fourth day. We were in the kitchen, and Margaret was asking me how she would get back and forth from school. Would she follow the highway, or just strike off as the crow flies? It hit me then like a solid thwack on the head. I looked at her. She was so earnest, so naïve, so perfect in her belief, so fragile in her understanding of the world.

"Margaret, do you really think the magic set will have a broom and that you'll be able to fly to school? Do you really believe there are brooms that fly?"

"Yes, Dad," she replied. "And I can't wait till Christmas when I have one."

"Margaret, come here, please. I want to talk to you." I knelt down, took her on my knee, and put my arms around her. My mind raced, uncertain how to deal with this situation.

"Margaret, there is really no such thing as a flying broomstick. Flying broomsticks exist only in books and movies. You can't really fly. It's just not possible. It's just pretend, love. I'm sorry." She looked at me, shocked. Her eyebrows furrowed, her lips pursed. She wanted to run from me, run from reality. She started to cry.

This was the first opportunity I'd had to deal with the reality of fantasy with my two little girls, my first chance to perpetuate or dash their beliefs. For the next few days Margaret was a bit vulnerable. She cried another time or two, saddened that her dream of flying to school on a broom would never be. I felt terrible that I had taken away such a fine dream. But I'm a parent, and my job is to help my child along, not let her perpetuate a fantasy that can't be fulfilled. Besides, I didn't want to be there at Christmas when she opened her magic set to find only false-bottomed glasses and rope tricks.

Several days later, Margaret asked me about Santa. She wanted to know how he could possibly go to every child's house in a single night. I was surprised by her logic. What do I do now? I wondered. I couldn't crush her again, not so soon.

"Margaret, Santa has a bit of magic, and he manages it somehow." She accepted my explanation, believing that there are some kinds of magic in this world, even if they don't include flying brooms.

For additional information about fantasy, see the following article in a past issue of Mothering: "Learning to Fly," no.108.

Kenneth Brock, a stay-at-home dad, keeps busy during school hours with a small garden-design business and an equally small immigration-law practice. He lives on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, with Linda, his wife of 18 years, and their two daughters.