Once upon a time, I harbored a quaint notion of child development. In
my imaginary world, children eventually transmogrified into those horror-movie monsters called teenagers. They would overrun house for a few years, scorching and pillaging along 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 parents were still in control.
My innocent notions have been sliced, diced and fed to that green creature so loyally following Captain Hook across 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 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 revolution began. Little Lady kicked up a fuss, wailing about how her imaginary friends had knocked on 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, kitchen was formally occupied by 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 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, same Lady Banker who technically owns at least half of our home and can at any moment shake rug and send us tumbling into winter snow.
As I was trying to explain a delicate detail to her, Barney suddenly came blaring through ear piece.
