When I was eight years old I trudged determinedly through Mirkwood Forest. It was dark and foreboding and smelled of thick wet moss. Me and my companions leaped over ditches, hid behind trees and walked deep into the darkness for hours, eyes open all the while for giant spiders and dark Elves.
I can still recall the smell of the moss, and the sharp, heart racing fear when a dark rider appeared on the trail ahead of us.
The Forest was a neighbours property between my house and a friend's, and the Rider was my Dad, caped and silent, riding on his push bike so as to outrun us.
I know how lucky I was to grow up on acreage of bush and away from bitumen roads and shopping centers. It's why, when deciding to start a family of more than furry creatures, The Boy and I moved an extra half hour away from the city. A place with space. And bush. And streams. And climbing trees.
But I think even if I was raised in a block of buildings I still would have found my own adventures. Because I was encouraged to.
I ache to pass this on to my children. To be the kind of parent that mine were to me, one that stirs their imagination. Joins in with their games.
I long to introduce them to the world's I used to live in; I want to fly a Skybax with them, have tea with Silky and Moonface, celebrate their victories at Cair Paravel and fight bravely against G'mork.
I actively soak up every second of Our Archer's babyness... but one day he won't be my chubby baby anymore, he'll be a little boy and I can't help but lie awake at night, excited for the adventures that await us...
