When I was growing up my mind was a constant radio show. One where I would tell story after story to imaginary audiences. I thought this was pretty fun but little did I know what would be funner. Telling stories with my baby. Our most recent one started with her idea. Which I found fascinating. "A tiny puppy lives in a nest!" She chirped excitedly.
I nodded enthusiastically and resisted the urge to inform her that dogs really don't like to climb up trees. Instead, I went with it. I figured it was like "Dinosaur Train" and the doggy would be taken in by a bird family. So I tried to steer the story in that direction at which point she laughed at me. "No silly!" Riiigghhttt.... I'm the silly one.
It occurred to me then how un-unique I am and how it comes so easily to her. Like at our starting setting, when we are little and still fresh to this world, we still see it in technicolor polka-dots and it takes a lifetime of socialization to stuff it into neat black and white squares. But. How on Earth do you fight against that and keep the brightly colored paintbrush in their minds?
Don't know if I have the answer to that, but in the meantime we keep making up stories now and then. Letting the bunny trails carries us off... get married! Wear dresses! Eat pickles! And I try to turn logic off and not think things like: wait... would a bunny really eat pickles? I figure if I can suspend disbelief for Hollywood every time I go to the movies at least I can do it for my four-year-old also.