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Cheryl Hughes: It’s Just Your Imagination

I recently met a woman who ran over her little girl’s imaginary friend.  Before you recoil in horror, let me explain.  The imaginary friend was always getting the little girl into trouble by inciting her to engage in dissident behavior.  On more than one occasion, the imaginary friend told the little girl to hit her mom, which she did.

One day, the mom had had just about enough of this ne’er-do-well; and being the sort of woman who never stands idly by when there is an obvious solution to a problem, she took matters into her own hands.

“Oh, look!” she said, after she and her daughter were buckled safely into their car one afternoon, “Isn’t that _____standing in the road?”

“Yes, I think it is,” the little girl answered.

The mom’s foot went immediately to the accelerator and stayed there for a good fifty feet.  “Oops, I ran over _____.  I think I killed her.”

“No,” the little girl said, looking back, “She’s getting up.”

The mom quickly put the car in reverse, and that was the end of _____forever.  

A lot of kids have imaginary friends.  My granddaughter, Sabria, has an imaginary friend.  She introduced her to me one morning as “my pretend friend, Felice.” 

 That evening, I sat down in my regular spot on the couch to watch the news.  Sabria, who was playing on the floor nearby, said, “Gee, you’re sitting on Felice.”

I stood up and said, “Felice, this is my spot, it has always been my spot, it will always be my spot, you’re going to have to find a new place to sit.”

Sabria looked up at me with an are-you-nuts expression, and said, “Gee, she’s just pretend.”

My granddaughter has a very active imagination, and she is always engaging one or the other of us in her pretend scenarios.  Her mom, Natalie, and I always go along with her, sliding easily into the roles assigned to us by this bossy little three-year-old.  My husband, Garey, refuses to comply.  Garey is not exactly one of those people you would describe as “politically correct” or even “socially conscious,” for that matter. The other thing about Garey is he uses his play time with Sabria to introduce “valuable” information; also, he just loves throwing a monkey wrench into the mix to see how she will react.

Sabria loves playing “Pink Princess and Blue Princess go to the ball.”   Pink Princess has been missing her right leg and left arm for at least six months—who knows where they’ve got off to.  One evening last week, she brought Pink Princess and a beautiful pink ball gown to me, and said, “Gee, can you help me dress her, she’s going to the dance.”

I was touched by the fact that my little granddaughter was dressing her handicapped doll for a night at the ball.  It made little difference that Pink Princess had only one leg and one arm, she would not be excluded.  

She took the princesses into the living room, climbed into Garey’s lap, gave him Pink Princess, she kept Blue Princess,  and the fun began—well Garey’s idea of it, anyway.  He decided she needed some “valuable” information about the consequences of tearing up your toys.

“We’re going to the ball,” she told him.

“I can’t go to a dance,” Garey said, in his most convincing falsetto princess voice. 

“Why not?”  Sabria asked.

“Because, I only have one leg and one arm,” he said, “I’ll fall over on my face then everybody will laugh at me.”

“No, they won’t,” She protested.

“Yes, they will,” Garey argued.  “They’ll call me Hop-A-Long, too.  And I’ll tell them Sabria tore off my arm and my leg, and it’s her fault I’m in this shape.”

“Well, it was an accident!” she said.

“It still hurt,” he said.   “What if I tore off your arm and your leg, and said, ‘Oh, it was just an accident,’ what would you do?”

“Papa, if we don’t hurry up, we’re going to be late for the dance,” she said, quickly changing the subject in order to relinquish her responsibility for Pink Princess’s predicament.

“Ok, but I can’t dance.  I’ll just sit over here and eat,” he said, which is what he did, until he remarked, “Oh, I can’t believe I ate that much.  I must have a hollow leg.  Wait, I don’t have a leg.  Sabria tore it off.”

Sabria stared blankly at her grandfather.  A smile began to tug at the corner of her mouth then she laughed out loud.  “Papa, you’re funny,” she said.  Sabria was embracing Garey’s sense of humor; and may God have mercy on our souls if her imagination is infused with his sense of humor.

 

 

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