No, I don't "identify as a cat"

but I do have a bit of fun with cat like references here and elsewhere. I never identified as a cat in my kittenhood either. 

If there is a rise in children "identifying" as animals of one sort or another I am not too concerned. It is almost certainly nothing more than a "fashion" that will soon die out. If there are rare children who really go further than that then I hope they will be identified and given the help they need.

Two people I know mentioned yesterday that they pretended to be ponies when they were very young. Why not? They obviously enjoyed the experience. Middle Cat and the Black Cat did the same thing. Our mother, who did not have a great deal of patience for that sort of thing on a busy morning when all six members of the household had to get to school, would say of our porridge, "Well here are your oats. Hurry up and eat them." Mum did not try to stop the game. I think she knew it would only make them more determined to "be" ponies.

I cannot remember "being" anything else but I had an imaginary friend until around the age of four. His name was "Barry" and he was "naughty". He did all the things I would like to have done.  I would describe all this to anyone else within earshot. Where he came from I have no idea. Years later the Senior Cat and I were talking about this and he told me that they did not even know anyone called Barry.  

I know Barry really irritated my mother. She would tell me to stop talking to him and about him. She would tell me he was not real. It made no difference. I went on talking to him and about him. I am sure I was well aware he was not real. He was simply the child I wanted to be. He ran and jumped and climbed and did the most amazing acrobatics. "He can jump as high as the moon," I would tell people. 

And then I was also "the guard on the train". That was another thing that drove my mother to distraction. "For goodness' sake. You are not the guard! Now, get out of the way. I haven't got time for that." Sigh. I loved blowing the whistle. (My paternal grandfather had given me a whistle for that purpose.) I loved holding my hand up and stopping "trains" (people) and "doing the shunting". I went to all sorts of places, quite impossible places from where we lived. It didn't matter we were off to Scotland, to Africa to see the lions, to the moon for cheese, or simply to the shop or the beach.  I carried parcels on my train (my little red Cyclops tricycle) and spent hours pedalling around first the backyard and then up and down the street or to the actual railway station. 

Recently I was the "traffic cop" for the children in the street. They were racing up and down on their bikes and scooters and I was watching for traffic so they could "go fast". It brought back all the joy of being the guard on the train. It was fun. They had fun. I know it won't be much longer before T..., the eldest, is too old for that sort of thing at the level of childish reality. He knows it too. We exchanged those sort of smiles but we were still enjoying ourselves. If any of them wanted to be ponies or cats or dogs or a dragon or anything else I would do my best to join in. We all know "it isn't really real" but we also know it is real at another level, that imagination matters. 

There is a fine line between imagination and madness but every child I know is aware of the difference and can switch between imagination and reality. It is some adults who fail to recognise the difference.