When I ask my three-year-old nephew what I should write this week, he's not exactly sure what I'm talking about. We're on the way to the park and he's in his car seat in the back, smiling at me in the rearview mirror. This particular nephew is almost always smiling, even when his pants are soaked in urine.
Explaining I write stories for fun and also for money is a confusing concept for him to grasp at first, although he seems to get it quicker than most adults.
"I have books in my room," he proclaims.
"Me too," I tell him. "But I need to write a new story. What do you think I should write about?"
"For the books in my room?"
Three-year-olds enjoy repetition.
"Maybe one day," I explain. "But right now I just need an essay for Saturday morning. What do you think I should write about?"
"Me!"
This kid knows the best stories are personal.
"Ok," I agree, "What are you doing in this story?"
"Crocodiles!"
I watch in the mirror as he pulls a rock out of the padding in his car seat and starts rolling it around his face. How long has he had that rock stashed away? And what else is in there?
I'm up for a story about a friendly croc and his toddler sidekick, so I start asking questions.
"You have a crocodile?" I exclaim with roughly the same level of enthusiasm I bring to most conversations but which only kids who still wet their pants manage to reciprocate.
"YES," he squeals. "IN SOUTH AMERICA."
Well, now I'm intrigued. Are they on the run in South America? And from what? And also how impressive is it that my three-year-old nephew knows where South America is? Probably gets that from his worldly uncle. God, he's lucky.
For the next ten minutes, he weaves a tale about him and a crocodile and also his friend Oliver traveling from South America to Florida and back to South America, sometimes by bus but mostly by ghosts.
“Friendly ghosts,” he explains. “But sometimes they grow big. And mean.”
“Maybe because you keep hitching rides?” I ask even though he’s distracted now, staring out the window at all the ghosts I can’t see.
“They grow big like me,” he says. I wonder how big he thinks he is right now, and then I wonder how big he thinks he’ll eventually be.
After a considerable sigh he rattles back on track, telling me how fun it is to dine on chicken nuggets and pasta in South America and also Florida, and that occasionally they all need to go to The Secret Place.
“The Secret Place?” Where do crocodiles and toddlers and toddler-sized ghosts go for secrets? And what happens there?
“The Secret Place is my bedroom,” he whispers. “We need to sleep.”
"Oh," I whisper back. “I love sleeping.”
“Me too,” he says, though I doubt he’ll remember this when he’s protesting bedtime later.
We pull into the park, where masked parents stand around as their kids climb on brightly colored plastic and metal scattered under hundred-year-old trees.
“Was that a good story?” he asks as I help him out of the car seat.
“That was a great story,” I tell him.
“For a book?”
“Maybe one day,” I repeat, holding his tiny hand while we cross the parking lot. “Would you want to read that book?”
“Noooo,” he announces loudly to the parents and the trees and the ghosts only the kids can see. “That’s a silly story.”
You should collaborate with your nephew on a children’s book! Loved every part of this!