Jack’s imagination continues to explode. Last week he was calling everything cylinder-shaped (from a toilet paper roll to a screwdriver) a rocket. When he would inevitably lose one of his “rockets” he would ask me where it was. To which I would reply, “Which rocket are you missing, honey? Your screwdriver rocket? Your bee rocket? Your flashlight rocket?” He would specify and a’hunting we would go. We play rockets by launching them into outerspace (or “outerface,” as he says it because he has trouble with pronouncing the sc combo) and big rockets must sound louder than little rockets. He then began (a few days ago) to take small red or orange toys and hold them underneath the rocket as the fire needed for blast off. The letter magnets on the fridge are all now arranged as rockets. And, if you didn’t know, we count UP to 13 before blast off ’round here (um, who taught my kid to count?).
This weekend he created the “baby chicky” game. This involves swathing himself in blankets, sheets, or curtains and announcing, “I’m a baby chicky in the nest! Cheep cheep! And you’re the mommy chicky!” This morphed a bit over a couple of days when he started hoarding his toys to create his nest. His pseudo-rockets (comb, bee toy, screwdriver) as well as other random items are piled onto the bed, then he lays on top of them and pulls the blanket over his shoulders. “Can you be in the nest?” he asks. This hoarding chicky nest maker game is now a giant part of our bedtime routine. If something is missing, he demands, “Where’s my screwdriver-nest? Where’s my bee-nest?” The specification of which object he is talking about has definitely stuck in his brain.
The downside to imagination is…nightmares. Jack sleeps more fitfully now and has woken up to call for me a few times. The most recent nightmare apparently involved monsters and aliens fighting, “and I was sssaared, mama, ’cause they were sarrrry.” I’m sad because Jack used to love monsters. Not so much anymore, I guess.