Astronaut, pirate, knight, fighter pilot, race-car driver, luchador, crow, rescue worker, dad, baby Jesus, Santa Claus, artist, guitarist, skier, motorcycle rider, train engineer. My son has been all of these things recently—each several times, for various durations and a range of missions.
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In Party City two weeks ago, Theo pled for a Santa costume. My acquiescence was clinched by the fact that the single hat-only option was emblazoned with Justin Bieber (WTF?). Theo was Santa Claus for three consecutive days.
Like other parents of four-and-a-half-year-olds, I am fascinated by Theo's whole-hearted dive into the world of each character he assumes. What is at play is less a suspension of disbelief than a total absence of disbelief: Fantasy is complete and immediate, and its landscape is infinitely fluid.
Theo's make-believe is incredibly fun to observe—and at this stage I am asked to join in. Too often, I squander his invitation in favor of my to-do list. But if I let go of this, I, too, can go to Uranus in a makeshift rocket with improvised gear. It's a little warm in a shipping box with a wine-carton helmet and snow bibs in July (or indoors in January), but this model of rocket gets to Uranus very quickly.
The real news is that the right costume carries tremendous transformative power. I knew this deeply when I was little; later, when ruinous self-consciousness crept in, theater and homemade movies offered new outlets. A more recent version of dress-up is the game called "going out"—although this is so rare now that it feels otherworldly even without a cool costume.
Accessorizing with Theo notwithstanding, I clearly have been asking too much of my daily jeans, sweater, and nursing tank top. My own juggled identities might benefit from better costuming: If I had the appropriate helmet, gloves and boots—or a cape!—for each of my tasks, I could inhabit them more fully. It certainly would be more fun.
Unfortunately, we have only one Lucha Libre mask. And while I'm tempted to don one of Theo's superhero capes when I answer a work call with a baby at my heels and dinner on the stove, I'd miss the call entirely if I took the time to fit the cape over my head.
The quick-change demands of parenthood are manifold. I desperately need a telephone booth in my living room/office/playroom! Perhaps that's the essential prop that would assure me I could do anything if I just believe enough. This is what we learn when we're young, what we tell our children: You can be anything you want to be. And, at Theo's age: You can be anything as often as you can imagine it.
Is this still true for me? I wonder about this a lot. What's possible isn't as unfettered as it was before I was an adult, a mortgage-holder, a parent. But watching Theo, I am reminded that I retain a critical agency despite the pressures of too much to do in too little time.
I am still in charge of my own narrative; the cast is just fuller, and the timeline is different and in constant flux. That, and the elements of the story have changed, as they always will continue to do.
A shift in perspective would go far in fulfilling my telephone-booth requirements. My quick-change work is about a willingness to allow my story to change course, to leave some things behind and to incorporate new information, new opportunities, or just a new character in a different get-up.
On Christmas morning, Theo couldn't wait to put on his new astronaut costume, though he paused mid-dress to watch his tutu-clad cousin twirl to Tchaikovsky. She was clearly beyond coercion into a spaceship. Theo took this in, put on his gloves and helmet and called out, "Hey! Would you like to do a ballet dance in space!?"
Ballerinas in space? No problem. I could learn a lot from the open, quick-change steps in that dance—and it seems I'd have my choice of costume, too.
