So I was explaining to my little boy how I used to make up all sorts of worlds and stories, then act them out–by myself–on the school playground. (Nobody else could do the parts “right,” so I played them all myself.) I’ve written about this here, here and here.
He’s 9; at that age, I had a large cast of characters which I made with my hands, basically hand puppets: Figure 8, dogs, cats, one or two humans, Rubber Duck (from the song Convoy).
I pretended to be a human colonist on the 10th planet, Spimpy, but the grass was poison, so we had to stay up on the Kee-Klamp (the name on a piece of playground equipment which was a twisty pipe with several ladders).
I pretended to be Neptune’s moon Nereid, as described here, with a whole host of other heavenly bodies making up the cast in my imagination: the sun, Earth, Mars, Venus, comets, etc. etc.
I pretended to be Pirate Samantha, the pirate cat, who sailed with her clumsy boyfriend Dodo and the captain and the rest of the crew, crapping on the poop deck and looking out the crow’s nest, fighting pirate dogs with trick knives so nobody got killed, and hoping to get dinner from pirate mice and birds.
I described some of this to my son and how I used to act out these stories on the playground.
Then I said that I acted them out by myself, and the other kids would think I was weird.
Then what did that little boy say? What did my precious little boy say?
He said, “I can see that.”
MY OWN SON!
Grumble grumble….But at least I’ve taught him how to spell my real name correctly. Practically everybody on the planet spells it wrong, even on documents, even when I’ve already spelled it correctly for them. But my son can spell it!