You’re singing again, making up random songs as you go along. Your lyrics are clear like the ones on the radio, but you rarely sing the ones you here. You like making up your own.
I used to sing all the time, making up random songs as I went along. I would swing for hours, singing my own songs. Ask your grandparents.
You’re telling stories. You like making up adventures. You’ll sit and go on and on and on, explaining the characters and what they do.
I would tell stories at your age, and I still do. I would sit at my desk and scribble, pretending it was script as I wrote along, once everyone was tired of listening to me.
You like to talk. Woe to the adult that catches your eye. You ask questions and explain things. You just like communicating. Everyone knows everything you’re thinking, wondering, understanding.
I still talk a lot. I was only a year older than you when I talked eight hours straight except for my nap, not repeating myself once. I think of it as a gift.
You’re a different person every day. You’re Super Turtle, Ti Lung, a ninja, a knight, a Tiki, a pirate. Every day you’re trying on someone else’s skin. Your imagination has no boundaries.
I was also trying to be someone else. A princess, a knight, a doctor, a queen, a fairy, an angel, She-Ra. Sometimes I still pretend I’m someone else, to work out stories in my head or my favorite an au pair when you and your brother act up.
Oh, right. One day you’ll also pretend you aren’t related to me. I’ll understand. I’ll hug you in front of your friends, but I’ll understand. You’re just an apple that fell too close to the tree.