Imagination

Lately, my daughter has developed a terrible affliction. She’ll be walking across the room and suddenly stop and look at me. “I stuck,” she’ll declare. Both hands will reach out for me, a desperate look in her eyes. “Pull me,” she’ll plead when I take her hands. Somehow, her foot will become unstuck. (I don’t know why, but it is always her left foot. I know it’s serious because she does this even when it’s not time for bed or some odious chore.) She’ll look back and in her best three-year old disgusted voice say, “There mud there.”

I find this interesting for several reasons. A: I’m pretty sure we don’t have patches of mud throughout the house. Second: I know I didn’t have that active an imagination when I was her age. Up until five, I lived in the inner city of Akron. My fondest memory is the neighborhood bully, on his tricycle, chasing me to kindergarten. I’m not sure, but everyone calling him Pukie might have led to his anger issues. On those lazy summer afternoons when we played with our friends, the game of choice was “whip your mamma.” (The “it” person had a stick or branch. If you were on the ground, you were fair game. That’s how I learned to climb trees. Face it, when a five-year old, tricycle-riding bully terrorizes the neighborhood, chances are, a tea party is not going to be the game of choice.)

But now, my kids amaze me with their creativity. I’m pretty sure the creativity doesn’t come from just the six-year old. Any unclaimed chair, box, crate or container is destined to become part of their newest train. (I think the last one started in the dining room, went through the living room and stretched to our family room. The length is important because, this time, they managed to block the front door, the stairs to the second floor, three doorways and a bathroom.)

The length also allowed them to seat almost all of my daughter’s dolls and stuffed animals. I know this because when it was bedtime, my daughter’s bed was empty. Usually I can barely see her peeking out from under the dolls and stuffed animals. (Yes, both grandmothers miss my subtle hints. “It’s a good thing we already have every stuffed animal ever made. I wouldn’t want either kid to feel underprivileged.” For some reason, they always come home with more fluffy lumps of animal-like dolls.)

Back to the bedtime. There’s PJ (her first doll that is still almost bigger than her), Baby (I don’t know why she picked that name either.), Pink Pony (the newest member of the collection, this time from my wife.) (She doesn’t listen to me either.) and Purple Monkey (Ok, this one is actually pretty cool. It has long arms with Velcro on the hands.). These were her usual companions when it came time for bed. This night, when she was sick, she looked up at me, her friends adding support and whispered, “Kayla. I need Kayla.”

She and her brother had raided every single doll and animal from both their rooms. I was vaguely aware that there was a doll called Kayla. (I think that is one of the babies at her preschool.) But, I’d given it my fatherly attention and had absolutely no idea which one it was. But, from the look in her eyes, I knew she and, more importantly, I would get no sleep until Kayla had been found.

So, it was back downstairs to the train. I grabbed two dolls that looked familiar, reasoning that if I recognized them, that meant she’d carried them around enough for me to notice and there was a good chance one was Kayla. “That not Kayla.” I was told as I put the first down. Well, it was a fifty/fifty shot. I honestly didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get it right the first time. “That not Kayla!” she announced at the second. I kept the mumbling under my breath and censored (see the article on self-editing) and headed back to the train. This time, I brought up as many dolls as I could carry.

Each shake of her head sent my hopes plummeting further. I was getting tired of going up and down the stairs. However, when her eyes lit up and she reached with a shout of, “Kayla!” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Tank you, daddy, for saving Kayla.” She smiled and snuggled up with her dolls and animals. I dumped the remaining armload of unnamed dolls on the foot of her bed and beat a hasty retreat.

With the rampant imagination, you’d think I’d be right at home. But… I’m not allowed to play. Thinking I’d turn the tables and get her to pull me along, one day I stopped and told her I was stuck. I got a very stern look and, “Daddy, there no mud there.” She didn’t even look back as she wandered off to torment her brother. (The tormenting she gets from me. The driving me crazy she gets from her mother.)