“It wasn’t me. The bear did it.”
She vowed to find the bear and teach him to say “Excuse me." This led to a twenty minute long bear hunt including her handing me a black fuzz-ball (likely from her father’s wool socks) produced as evidence that there was a gassy bear loose in my house. All this to avoid admitting that she was, in fact, the culprit; and that she did not say excuse me. But because I enjoyed her creativity and commitment, I played along.*
Later, as I’m sharing the story and a chuckle with her dad it occurs to me that in a sense, each time I sit down with my laptop attempting to convert my imagination from something ethereal to something corporeal, I’m engaging in my very own bear hunt. There are days where I catch the bear, and some where I come up empty. There are days where all I find is a bit of fuzzball that may or may not be useful. And sometimes, it is really stinky. But because I enjoy the creativity and the commitment, I always play along.
*Indulging her imagination may have set a bad precedent. She spent the weekend passing gas and blaming it on that damn stinky bear.