Do I look like Steven Spielberg to you?

I'm pretty sure this makes me a lousy mom but as soon as I see a glint of creative zeal in my children's eyes, a stroke of inspiration, as soon as one of them exclaims, "Oh! I've got a GREAT IDEA!" - well, I get instantly annoyed.

Theoretically, my children's inspiration is wonderful, phenomenal, even inspiring to me. But in practice, it involves a crapload of work on my part. I have learned this the hard way.

Whenever Primo gets a big idea, it means my assistance is immediately required. His inspiration is such an overpowering force it consumes him and erases every modicum of patience or reason he might possess (in slim quantities to begin with). He dreams impossible dreams. And who does it fall to, ultimately, to make those dreams come true? Who do you think?

The kids are taking a movie-making class now, and, as I feared, it has kindled the flame of their imaginations. When I picked them up yesterday from class, Primo immediately informed me he was "inspired" to make a stop animation short.

His movie-making inspirations are the ones I dread the most because they are the most time-consuming and because they involve my using technology that I am not even sure how to operate. I'll help him construct a Lego Eiffel Tower any day over making a movie.

So, at 5:30pm, the kid wants to make a movie. There's homework to be done, dinner to be had, bath and books and all that jazz and I know from the last time we made a movie that it is an operation which can easily take an entire afternoon -- I'm talking two to four hours -- not a project to be undertaken at bedtime.

These are the ill-timed strokes of inspiration I live in fear of. Because when I tell the kid, "Well, honey, there's really not enough time to make a movie before bed," he goes ballistic. Don't I understand? He is in the throes of a cosmic creative force which can not be denied, postponed or abbreviated in any way. It is a burning desire to CREATE which has set his heart aflame with passion. He cares not for BEDTIME. He cares not for teeth brushing. This is a masterpiece he is holding in his mind and he can't hold it too long or it- tender creature - will expire. Do I want his BRILLIANT MASTERPIECE to DIE an ignominious death, having never seen the light of day? DO I?

Plus, it will only take five minutes, he assures me.

And I fall for it. Because I'm a softie and because, regrettably, I treasure his big plans and divine inspiration, maybe even more than he does. I have saved approximately four million drawings of Plants vs Zombies characters he's penned, for crying out loud. Of COURSE I will help him realize his impossible dream.

Which is how I find myself past bedtime, in a fury, interviewing a Ninjago mini figure, ignoring my daughter's yells for assistance with her own creation in the bathroom.

"MOMMY I DID A POOP AND I NEED HELP WIPING!"

"MOMMY WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME?"

"MOOOOOOOMMMY!"

To which I finally reply, "We are FILMING in here honey! Primo, just cut! Scrap that take! We'll have to go again, after I wipe your sister's butt."

This is not sane behavior. This is where inspiration leads you. This is why I try to avoid getting my kids inspired in any way possible. Unless its getting inspired to take a freaking nap. Which is stroke of genius my kids never have.

T-Bone

The other morning, Seconda told me about a dream she'd had, featuring her new imaginary friend. T-Bone. T-Bone was doing some circus act and Seconda had to rescue her.

That night, when Sec was still awake at 11pm, darting out of her bedroom every five minutes to tell us something terribly important like "I don't like cheddar cheese," and "Don't forget to give me an umbrella when it rains." I told David about T-Bone, in order to boost parental morale.

"She may be a real pain in the ass," I said, "But she's so fucking cool. I mean, where did she even get the idea for a female imaginary friend named T-Bone? Its not like we ever told her about T-Bone Burnett or anything, who is a man, anyway. She is just INHERENTLY cool. Let's remember that."

Sec ran out at that moment to with my lipstick smeared all over her face: "And don't forget to put this lipstick on tomorrow, Mommy, so you can look beautiful like me."

"Coolness does not come without a price," I said unconvincingly to David and to myself.

Then a few days later, we were at a playdate and I was chatting with one of my dear, old Mommy friends and T-Bone come up.

"I don't know where she got the idea," I mused.

"Isn't T-Bone the dog character from one of those PBS shows?" my friend asked.

"What?" I said, somewhat malevolently.

"I don't remember the name of the show but I think on one of those PBS Kids cartoons, there's a dog named T-Bone."

"Oh, great," I grumbled, "Just go ahead and puncture the illusion, which I am desperately clinging to for consolation, that my daughter is inexplicably cool and wildly creative. I need to believe that the defiance and impulsiveness and inflexibility is serving some greater good, some long-term pay off and T-Bone was an important piece of evidence in my case. Which you just trashed. And now I have nothing to believe in."

"Sorry," she said.

I haven't told David that our child's brainchild was born from an unvetted TV show she probably watched at my grandmother's house. I'm sparing him.

Plus -- it occurred to me later that day, when I walked into Sec's room and found she'd pulled very single one of the books off the shelf and left it all in a massive, unapologetic far-flung pile -- it takes an impressive amount of coolness to even recognize a cool name when you hear one. She could have picked Wyatt or Dora to be the name of her new imaginary amigo, but she knew that was pedestrian. There is hope after all.