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The three-year-old came home from school one day really excited because at preschool they had just finished a unit on dinosaurs. All through dinner, it was “I was a brachiosaurus. They have long necks.” And, “I want to fly like a pterodactyl”, even doing a decent job pronouncing “pterodactyl”.

And, when asked what he would like to eat for an upcoming birthday dinner, he said, “I want to eat a dinosaur.”

His mom convinced him the supermarkets in our part of the state don’t carry dinosaur, but that didn’t diminish his enthusiasm.

My daughter, meanwhile, was working out dance routines for her upcoming class.

I have creative kids. The boy walks around most of the time with a small broom that is alternately a guitar/microphone/boat oar and, occasionally, actually a broom. The girl has an entire curriculum for her classroom of imaginary pupils.

If you have kids, you know how imaginative they are. This isn’t a post about the joys of childhood or how adults should try to recapture that innocent creativity. You know that already.

This post is just me taking a moment to remember all of this; to appreciate my kids for all they believe they can do. A chance to savor that time before they get older and the crushing realities of the teen years and adulthood threaten to flatten them.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find some chocolate syrup to put on my dinosaur.


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