Once upon a time, I
harbored a quaint notion of child development.
In the my imaginary world, children eventually transmogrified into
those horror-movie monsters called teenagers. They would overrun the
house for a few years, scorching and pillaging along the way...but
leaving no lasting damage that a new mortgage and a five-year
Caribbean cruise couldn't fix. They would then transmogrify into
wistful longings and fond memories of when they were just babies -
when the parents were still in control.
My innocent notions have been sliced, diced and fed to that green
creature so loyally following Captain Hook across the seven seas. My
daughters are still both toddlers, and already their mutiny
is almost complete.
Little Lady is just three-and-a-half. Two days ago, she took over
the kitchen.
"No. Don't sit there. That's Lulu's chair."
"Lulu?" my wife asked?
"She's my imaginary friend."
"Well I have a real sandwich and real hunger and I'm going to sit my
real bottom down on this real chair," my wife responded.
That's when the revolution began. Little Lady kicked up a fuss,
wailing about how her imaginary friends had knocked on the door and
how she had let them in and how could Mommy be so cruel as to sit on
one of them.
"Your imaginary friend can sit on an imaginary chair," my wife
finally said.
"Nooooooooo..."
"Do you want me to leave?" my wife asked.
"Yes. Go away." And with those words, the kitchen was formally
occupied by the rebel insurgent army - one toddler and a handful of
her imaginary friends.
Editor's note. The wailing eventually stopped. I was able to squeeze
an apology out of Little Lady. And my wife did return to the
kitchen. But Lulu was keeping one sentry eye trained on us.
This morning I was taking a business call. Nobody important, just
Lady Banker. Yes, the same Lady Banker who technically owns at least
half of our home and can at any moment shake the rug and send us
tumbling into the winter snow.
As I was trying to explain a delicate detail to her, Barney suddenly
came blaring through the ear piece.
"What?!" Lady Banker and I cried in unison.
It took me a moment, but it slowly dawned on me that the living room
had fallen to the enemy. "Please excuse me a moment. I think this is
the work of foreign cannibals breaking through the basement
foundation again." I didn't know if Lady Banker would buy my story,
but I figured it would buy me some time while she considered it.
I rushed to the living room, and there was Little Sister, grinning
in the full splendor of her 14 months and holding up the handset.
"I was on the phone with Lady Banker, Little Sister. She holds the
mortgage to our house, you know."
The look on Little Sister's face said it all: "You think that's your
biggest problem?"
I tried a few negotiation tactics, finally trading the handset for a
limited edition huggy doll.
I returned to the phone. "The rebels are gaining ground, eh?" Lady
Banker asked. I sighed.
It was true. Just yesterday, Little Sister scurried up the back
staircase to the second floor. She had been playing right beside me,
and I was certain she had just headed in the other direction to
where her big sister was holding her mother hostage the living room.
But I had to make sure. I peaked my head around the corner toward
the back staircase. Nobody. Then I saw it. Her little blankie lying
at the foot of the stairs. I heard a thump above, and Little
Sister's lifeless body flashed before my eyes where the blankie lay.
I raced to the staircase, up the stairs and around the corner.
There she stood, grinning at me with her "You think that's your
biggest problem?" expression again.
The revolution is gaining momentum. They hold the kitchen. They won
the living room. Now they have a toehold on the upstairs landing. It
won't be long until the toddlers and their imaginary friends have
overrun the house and declared it a free country. Bedtimes will be
banned and candy will be the national currency.
When they leave home, I'll need more than a five-year cruise to
de-stress. Maybe ten years will be enough.
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