I had an adventurous childhood. I flew with dragons, scaled beanstalks and met a whole zoo’s worth of talking animals.
When I pulled my head out of a book, real life was fun but more… mundane. My friends and I never foiled gangs of international smugglers and the back of my wardrobe remained disappointingly solid (I know because I checked).
As I got older, I realised that good parenting might be the cause. Lake-side holidays involved lifejackets and supervision instead of Swallows-and-Amazons-style neglect.
Taking Turkish Delight from witches was also a big no. I’d been given the stranger danger talk and, unlike Edmund, I’d listened.
Now that I’m in my 30s and “adulting” I’ve had to look reality in the face; I’ll never ride a sparkly unicorn into battle and wouldn’t want to anyway. Continue reading “4 Ways Children’s Literature Gave Me Unrealistic Expectations About Life”