My daughter Sophia is three. So, of course, she likes to play. But she’s also a toddler. And toddlers say goofy things.

One day, she sat at her little plastic table in one of her little plastic chairs.

“Dad! Come to Sophia’s Post Office!” she said.

How sweet, I thought, as dads will, and sat down in the other plastic chair.

“What can I get for you?” she asked.

“Well, what do you have?” I replied.

“We have ice cream and breakfast and pictures!”

Disclosure: The ice cream is Playdough, the breakfast and plates are toys, and the pictures are hand-painted watercolors by Sophia herself—after Pollock and Rothko.

Before I could scoff and interrogate the idea that any Post Office would have ice cream, breakfast, or pictures, I realized she would learn that dreary fact someday.

On this particular day, her imagination would run wild.

Sophia and I would live in a world where entrepreneurial dreamers like her run post offices that people might want to visit—and run them profitably.
 

Never stop dreaming, baby girl.
 

 

Source: GAO — QED, Ben Franklin.

Max Borders is a senior advisor to The Advocates. Read more of his writing at Underthrow.

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