Raising children and writing for children, I often try to put myself in their shoes. What are they thinking? What do they want? Why are they upset? And much of the time, this works OK. But then, every once in a while, I'm reminded of just how far away my mind really is from that of a six-year-old boy.
Take for example this past Friday. I picked my son and his friend up from school and drove them to my house to play. On the drive home, my son picked up the book I'd left on the passenger seat to read. Egyptian Mythology.
"Look!" my son says to his friend, holding up the book. "This statue is naked."
"Let me see!" his friends calls back, demanding his turn to look at the book.
And so on until we got home, at which point they insisted upon bringing the book into the house.
This does remind me of growing up and finding the random copy of National Geographic around the house. We'd flip through and happen upon a picture of a woman with no shirt on from some tribe in Africa. We'd giggle. We'd flip back to the picture. We'd giggle some more.
I guess not much has changed in thirty years.