By Karen Miller
@karen_rose_m

“Can I pretend my water is a Pumpkin Spice Cold Brew?”

“Can I pretend mine is a Pumpkin Spice Latte?” 

My oldest boys ask me these questions during an afternoon of imaginary play. They are Spiderman, and I am Aunt May, giving the occasional “yes,” an anticipated “of course,” and the inevitable “time to come in for dinner!” from my post in the kitchen. They’ve built a fort from fallen tree branches, and a once discarded broken jump rope has resurrected as Spidey’s web that they are using to trap the evil villain Doc Occ (aka their little brother). Their laughter carries through the breeze rustling the golden leaves on the lone Aspen in the backyard. Soon Moser, my oldest, starts to lasso the tree with his jump rope-turned-web, another saga in this afternoon adventure together. 

***

With my own siblings decades older than me, loneliness was my earliest and oldest friend. I dreamt of building forts and going on adventures in my two-acre backyard with a brother or sister closer to my age. Instead, I explored the old barn on our sprawling property by myself, talking out loud with my imaginary siblings.

I climbed up the dilapidated ladder to the barn’s loft with my neon Lisa Frank notebook tightly tucked into my jacket pocket. Among the pages were the families I carried with me, pencil sketches, and carefully crafted aliases of people with whom I could share life. Each family had a mom and a dad and somewhere between two and 10 kids. These families were as real to me as the aging wood beneath my feet and the canal that ran adjacent to our property. I spent hours playing games with my fictional siblings and imagined my own future with my husband, a Leonardo DiCaprio look-alike—of course—and our future kitchen table full of sons and daughters. 

Other times, I’d dream about these families under the towering pine tree in our front yard. I’d hop on the tree swing and picture another one beside me, with a little sister gripping the frayed rope handles, laughing as we pumped our legs back and forth, back and forth to go higher and higher before jumping off. But when it was time to go inside, my name was the only one called from the front porch, and I’d jump alone and run back into the house to play Barbies by myself.

When it was time for dinner, I set only three plates on our kitchen table, one for Dad, Mom, and myself. We passed around mashed potatoes and gravy and my parents would quiz me on my school work while Jeopardy! played on the television in the background. Alex Trebek was so present at dinner time, I should have set out a plate just for him. As contestants answered questions from categories like European Landmarks and Early United States History, I’d silently take inventory of places I wanted to go and subjects I wanted to study. More hopes and dreams I tucked away for safekeeping like the families in my notebook. 

After Final Jeopardy, we cleaned up dinner, and I rushed to get the plates in the dishwasher so I could return to Barbie and her Dreamhouse full of family members. They were the familiar faces waiting for me back in my bedroom along with the families in my notebook.  When I closed my eyes for bed, notebook safely tucked under my pillow, I prayed Leo and our kids would show up in my dreams.

***

“How many kids do you want?” I asked my then-fiancé, Brad, as we shared ice cream and sipped our espressos after a premarital counseling session.

“You know I want to have twelve kids and run an orphanage in Africa,” he said, tapering off his statement with a nervous laugh. 

He always imagined calling the red dirt of sub-Saharan Africa home. A year prior, we met while on a mission trip to Kenya and bits and pieces of that dream started to come true. I had watched Brad, towering at 6-foot 5-inches, kick a tattered soccer ball with dozens of school children in the small village where we were staying. I saw how his well-timed jokes made children laugh as we passed out boxes of milk at the crowded hospital. He rocked and sang to twin newborn babies at the children’s home we visited each week. No doubt a quiver full of children would be in this man’s future, and after a whirlwind romance born from that trip, I discovered I wanted those children to be mine too. 

Almost a decade later, we were on our way to that dozen with our natural born children. After baby number two, though, Brad realized a dozen kids was a pipe dream. He was obviously someone who had never changed a diaper or been up all night with a screaming baby. Most days, our brood of three little boys rival a pack of hyenas.

Once, our middle son, Daniel, hit Moser across the forehead with a broken piece of a metal garden shovel. I was convinced we were destined for our first ER visit. I sent my pediatrician friend a series of frantic text messages and bloody pictures, but she reassured me we just needed Neosporin and a butterfly bandage. Despite the initial hysteria, the only evidence of that incident is a now faded forehead scar and a scared four-year-old promising never to hit his brother again. 

***

My kids shift from playing Spiderman to pretending they are dinosaurs—herbivores specifically—gathering the yellowing leaves one by one. They still have their pumpkin spiced drinks (i.e, water bottles) in hand, a love for fall flavors I have passed on to them at least theoretically. These dinosaurs have quite the appetite since they have the nerve to ask me for cheese, beef jerky, and Ritz crackers, too. 

“I thought you were herbivores today?” I ask for clarification. “Shouldn’t I make you salad instead?”

“We are, Mommy. But don’t you know some herb-di-vores like beef jerky, too?!” I hear Daniel shout from atop his little brother’s plastic slide. Did he actually just roll his eyes at me? Suddenly he’s a teenager who has just been asked to take a shower, and I see a brief glimpse of my future. 

I whip up some dinosaur charcuterie per their request, relieved this afternoon consists of a mild interpretation of The Land Before Time. The boys continue collecting tree stars with their imaginary drinks and beef jerky, and I overhear something about Sharp Teeth and Three Horns and who would win in a battle between dinosaurs and superheroes. Right now, laughter abounds and for this brief moment on an ordinary October afternoon the usual fighting and tattling cease. 

“Spidey! Peter Parker! Doc Occ! It’s time for dinner!” I call out to the boys, keeping up with their charade. They reminded me even though they are beef-jerky-eating herbivores, “We are still superheroes, MOM!” Corrected again, I roll my eyes, and scoop up the toddler as the boys come running into the dining room. 

As they head to the bathroom to wash up, I hear them fighting about who gets to turn on the faucet first. It’s Daniel this time, much to Moser’s dismay. My youngest, Isaiah, is quickly following in his brothers’ feuding footsteps, bopping them on the head with Buzz Lightyear “to ‘finity and ‘yond!” whenever they get too close to him. No one warned me the Time Out Stool would be such an integral piece of furniture in our house.

The boys finish washing their hands just as I finish buckling Isaiah into his booster seat. They come barreling around the corner, and shove each other out of the way to reach their seats just as Brad comes home from work. He kisses me on the cheek and heads to the dining room as I turn off the oven and grab the pan of chicken apple sausage and veggies. The boys are in a heated discussion over which color plate they want for dinner. 

When our youngest was born, I remember lamenting to Brad that I didn’t know how I would handle all three boys on my own. Now three years later, I spend countless afternoons watching them laugh together in their Land of Make Believe, and it surpasses every one of my hopes for my kids and their relationships with each other. Their brotherhood heals the pain of loneliness that has followed me for decades. I see much of myself in each of them, but the laughter of playing with real life siblings heals a 20-year ache from the little girl who had to play Barbies alone. 

Once the colored plate debacle has been sorted out, all three boys play Rock Paper Scissors while I finish plating up dinner. Brad’s in on the game too, chatting with each boy about their day and trying to teach Isaiah how to make a pair of scissors with his fingers. Moser and Daniel are arguing of course, one of them convinced paper beats scissors.

I peer over the counter. Seeing them huddled close, a lump forms in my throat and my eyes well up with tears. Even with all the sibling squabbling: this is the future I longed for as a little girl. 

There’s no TV on in the background to fill in the gaps of conversation between children and adults. There’s no rushing off to play because toys are more enjoyable than each other's company. I dab the tears in my eyes with my shirt sleeve, thankful my kids have a childhood full of backyard adventures and dinners around the kitchen table—together. 

Guest essay written by Karen Miller. Karen is a California native but she and her husband have called Colorado home for the past eight years. She believes in the power of stories to bring people together. A former overseas missionary, she’s currenting a stay at home mom to three little boys. Karen loves Jesus, her boys, sunflowers, and dirty chai tea lattes. When she’s not picking up LEGOs or dishing out snacks, you can usually find her reading WWII historical fiction or scrapbooking. She sometimes blogs at her website and you can find her on Instagram.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.