Concrete Thinking

So, S has had a big couple of weeks. First, he started 4K and has learned to write his name and be a big boy. He also got the chance to play soccer with the 5 year olds because his coach thought he was a little bit above the 4 year old level. (Which of course, S had to confirm by spending the entire soccer game on Saturday looking at the clouds.) Then, his music teacher asked to move him to the next level class in her sequence.
She approaches me, "I don't think S is really into imagining and playing with us. And the class for his level is really all about imaginary play. Today, for example, I asked the class if the crickets in my pocket made a staccato sound or a legato sound. And his response was, 'c'mon. We know there are no crickets in your pocket!' I think he might be a little too concrete for that class, and possibly, mature enough for the next level. And while I am happy to move him up, I think you really need to spend time at home cultivating an imagination. Where would we all be after all, if Thomas Edison didn't IMAGINE the light bulb? Sure, we need people to build the light bulb, but children are truly losing the capacity to imagine."
OK. Go ahead, and move my child up. And I don't want to be contrary, because I know my child is imaginative. (Actually both of them, are) And, furthermore, I know that I am not simply a parent in denial who cannot handle a constructive suggestion from the music teacher. But...
People wonder all the time about their children's propensity for success; they wonder how successful, imaginative, creative, brilliant, their children are. I hear things like, "MY child can read at the fourth grade level and he's only 5." or "My child is fluent in six languages. Children pick them up so readily when they are 3." or "MY child can hit the ball out of the park in the t-ball league and he just started last week." I understand why parents brag, I probably brag about my children, too. I understand that sharing your child's success affirms your success as a parent. I KNOW everyone needs that affirmation. But, I have to say that when it comes to imagination, my S is not coming up short.
Here's what I got for you, music lady: S doesn't lack imagination--he just lacks the time and patience for your small scale, rinky dink insect in the pocket gag. He has Dr. No, Bond Nemesis, Take Over The Planet With A Death Ray Imagination. He hasn't got time for shadow puppets, he is cultivating big plans for an underwater lair and minions. He's seen it all, done it all, and is on to The Next Big Thing. S is going to be controlling a corporate empire of newspapers, diamond mines, and water farms which will only be shared with those hoodlums willing to part with one hundred million dollars.
How do I know this? HOW do I know that S's plans are on such a grandiose scale and so damn evil?
Allow me to share:
S has had a messy day. Not a particularly accident-filled day, just a lot of reckless behaviour that has resulted in my cleaning up several doozies. First off, he spilled an entire bowl of cereal this morning on the floor. So, I got out the mop and cleaned it up. The mop and bucket were still out, S was playing in the bucket's bubbles (disobeying instructions), and tipped over the bucket. I decided that he could clean the mess of sudsy water. I was very clear, "get out one towel and dry up the floor." I came back to find one WEEK'S worth of bath towels, just folded from the dryer, still warm in fact, spread all over the floor. In addition to the entire family's bath towels, every single rag from the rag cupboard was out. TWO LOADS FULL OF TOWELS WERE SPREAD OUT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR.
I flipped.
But, you see, in his evil genius imagination, that is exactly what he had planned. A child with no imagination might have thrown a temper tantrum, or even used my best towel or favorite shirt to mop it up. But only a child with BIG PLANS in mind could execute such hostility with such flair, such panache as to completely send me over the edge.
Me, laying there on the table, with the laser about to fry me in half: "Do you expect me to punish you?" Sam, laughing maniacally: "MWHAHAHA. No, Mama Bond, I expect you to go insane."
Imagine that.