I want to be in a children’s book.
I don’t mean star in one. I don’t mean get my name mentioned. I mean live in one.
I’d like to be a blue dog that drives a car or a bear that talks or a rabbit that wears cute vests and ballet slippers. I’d like to live in a world where it’s ok for moms to go out for a bit and leave the children under the care of a Rottweiler. I’d like to see where insects talk – where hungry caterpillars get fed and lonely spiders make friends. I’d like to hang out in that great green room with the red balloon and giant fireplace. Who has a bedroom that big and cozy?
I’d like to spend a few decades where animals wear clothes and monsters have playdates. Where things are warm and safe and colorful, and the biggest worries are fear of the dark, a rainy day, not wanting to go to bed and wondering how much, exactly, I am loved.
I want to live in a world where problems get fixed in twenty pages or less. Where everyone feels good at the end, even a grouchy ladybug.
Where beings of various sizes, shapes, species, colors and nationalities converse reasonably.
Where bullies learn.
Where being different is okay, even rewarded. Where bears nap in mittens. Where green eggs and ham taste good. Where builders get the job done - with just the help of their cheerful tools.
Where things don’t have to make sense as long as they rhyme. Where it's ok to not know who your mother is. And where time passes - but only until you come back again.
I’d like to live in a children’s book.
For now, I’ll have to pretend.
