No one asks me anymore what I want to be when I grow up. I’m guessing, that being over 39 they: 1- think I’m already there, wherever there is, or most likely: 2- they’ve lost all hope of me ever growing up. Can’t say I blame them & anyway, kids tend to have more fun so why should I grow up?
Still I often think of all those things I want to be when & if I do.
I want to be a photographer, an author, an illustrator, an artist. I want to draw blueprints & do some interior design. I want to have a big studio full of light with space for all of these things & whatever related whim takes my fancy. I want to travel & journal it into a book with photos I take. Oh & it’d be nice if free energy came with all this.
When my children graduated from kindergarten, one of the last projects each of them did was a page with a picture of themselves & a caption of what they wanted to become, & the teacher posted all students work up on the last day.
I remember reading the common ones; I want to be a cowboy, a mailman, a farmer, a teddy bear. Some children were less articulate & said; a grass-cutter-guy, or flower-planter-person, or pen fixer. And some elaborated, saying; a lady who helps other ladies buy nice things, the Cat in the Hat, or a fancy zamboni driver. (Never knew whether that meant he’d dress fancy or do tricks while, well, zambonying.)
But the best one that I ever saw went like this:
“When I grow up I want to be a friend finder.”
Out of the mouths of babes…
Ink & Attic 