Children's imaginations are expansively outside the box, where green can be the color of sky and hair. Maybe the sky has hair. It's perpetually groovy where they live.
Before I knew better I'd say, "That's our house!" And my son would look at me as if a better place for me might be the zoo. I would reconsider, remember the advice of parenting books and say, "Is that a house?"
He would continue to stare at me, dumfounded that I didn't get what he'd drawn was The Batmobile. "That red square is the bat elevator." Then he added, "That's where the inventing happens."
"I don't know. Do bats invent?"
He'd look at me as one considers a fence post, and then he'd run off to his friends who plainly got The Batmobile, leaving me to muse on Picasso: "Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up."