William is sitting right next to me on the floor, playing his own latest game. He's transferring a bunch of wooden blocks and a handful of tangled Mardi Gras beads back and forth between the block tray, a blue tupperware bowl, and a San Diego Zoo lunchbox.
Every time he gets a big mess of beads and blocks in the bowl, he puts the lid on, shakes the whole thing and crows, "Beads! Bocks! Beads!"
Why is this fun? Who knows? The important this is that William thinks it's fun. He has his own little system, which I don't quite understand, but whatever it is, it's working for him.
However, the lunch box can be problematic. He just put a bunch in the lunch box and hooked it shut. But then he can't get it open. "Can't take beads out," he fretted. "My beads! Help!"
Yes, I helped him. What kind of mother do you think I am? Sheesh.
(If you answered, "The kind who wrote it all down before you helped him," well, er, okay, I plead guilty as charged.)
Anyway, I am marvelimg at his creativity. I once read something that proposed that we hit our creative peak around age seven, and then for most of us, it starts to tail off after that. I wish I could have preserved some of the creativity I had at age seven! I remember making up countless stories and games and songs, just to entertain myself. Imagine if I could channel that now.
Guess I'll have to write down everything that William does until age seven instead...
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