There is usually a lot going on in the car when I am taxiing my daughter Addy around.
Whether it’s 80s music, talk radio, her reading a book out loud or just general, nonsensical conversation, there is rarely a dull moment.
Unless, of course, it’s that kind of morning – the one where Addy is still sleepy, wants the radio off and won’t even entertain me cracking some of the windows down for air and noise.
What has struck me recently, though, is that her little, vivid imagination is just fascinating.
First, there is road construction in front of my house. And I would bet, to a 3-year-old, it just looks like a scene out of some futuristic movie.
Cranes are digging holes, there are orange cones and poles everywhere, jackhammers – all of it is a pretend-pot-o-gold for a kid.
Addy first asked me what “those guys” were doing over there. I tried to explain to her the concepts of widening streets and the city finances that precede such road projects.
I think I bored her to sleep.
She pondered what I said, and finally added her thoughts: “They’re digging for buried treasure.”
Yes indeed. The men and women in the silly yellow hats are across the street from our house digging for buried treasure. That was so adorable I could’ve just hugged her right there.
“They are?” I asked her.
She proceeded to tell me what they were hoping to find and how long it will take them to dig in all the holes.
I was captivated by this story. The things rattling around in her head often astound me, though. It harkens me back to a time when I could have taken such a simple scene and made it into a battle between dinosaurs and the police, with the ultimate victory coming when me and the rest of the neighborhood kids took control of the tower.
Or something like that…
As I drove to her preschool, Addy spotted my shaving mishap under my ear and asked about my “booboo.”
“Did you cut your face on a woodchip?”
This question is a nod to her frequent injuries on the playground which, of course, is covered in woodchips.
I had to chuckle about that. In her wonderful little head, my injuries, too, happen on the playground.
If only, kiddo. If only.
John Beaudoin is the publisher of the Lees Summit Journal. To comment, call 816-282-7001 or e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org.