Why do I relate so well to children's books like Bill Peet's Whingdingdilly or Eric Carle's The Mixed Up Chameleon? I guess we all go through periods where we wish we were something vastly more exciting or interesting than what we are. Then I sit back and realize that my life is pretty good...like the Whingdingdilly at the end of the book who wants to go back to being a scruffy old dog so he can play with the boy, or the Chameleon who turns back into himself in order to shoot out his long sticky tongue and catch that fly.
Although it seems to me like maybe those authors had adults with mid-life crisis in mind:)
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