Little Owl: That’s bozanne.
Me: What’s bozanne?
Little Owl: That.
Me: The pepper pot is?
Little Owl: Yes.
Me: What’s Bozanne?
Little Owl: That is.
Brief bit of imaginative play with Bozanne the pepper pot. Dinner ends.
Me: Shall we put Bozanne to bed in the cupboard then?
Little Owl (looking confused): Who’s Bozanne?
“I was playing along with you!” I want to say. How did I end up being the one suggesting we put a pepper pot to bed while she looks at me as if I’ve completely lost the plot? Several conversations like that a day can leave me feeling like I’ve gone insane. Trying to explain that only minutes ago we were playing with her invented character only makes things worse. She sighs heavily, as if to say, “Well I’ll play along with you if I must mum but you make no sense.” Is this how the inter-generational strife of puberty starts?!
On the topic of puberty and communication here is a group of young people I drew for a project the other week.