One of the most fun parts of this parenting gig is watching creativity develop. My son has recently gotten into superheroes, and he has invented his own—Super-Tigey, a tiger who is stronger than Superman. Recently he's started adding a rogue's gallery of his own, rather than just grabbing supervillains from wherever. Leading the rogue's gallery is Death Tiger, who has a very ill-defined suite of powers that basically include whatever menacing idea my son has right at that moment. But today, I was told about a new member of the rogue's gallery: Bomb Octopus.

And there's something simple and glorious about that. Do we need an origin story? Hell, no, it's an octopus with a bomb. Motivations? Octopus with a bomb. Inner conflict? Octopus. Bomb.

I have been encouraging him to draw his ideas and make them into "comic books." I'm watching with fascination to see his ideas become more sophisticated.

We're hardwired this way, us humans. Making stories. Making fanfiction, even; Super-Tigey has fought beside and rescued Superman, Maui from Moana, and any number of other characters. Pan narrans, the storytelling chimpanzee.

And it is so much fun listening to what my little chimplets come up with.