Fiona drew a rocket. In fact, she drew five. Yesterday. She’s been drawing rockets lately, and talking about them, and pretending to fly in them, and building them out of other things.
So, I asked her, “Fiona, you’ve been drawing a lot of rockets lately, do you want to tell me about them?”
And she answered me, “I have to draw rockets, Mommy. It’s my destiny.”
Some things are preordained. I wonder, is it the rockets or is it the drawing of rockets that is destined to be?