The Imaginary Friend

This story was written when my oldest son, was 2 1/2. He is now 8. With distance, it is funny but at the moment this was happening, I remember the panic and the anger at not having enough information to decide what to do. I also remember feeling utterly and completely absurd but progressing anyway because at least I was "doing" something. When I was pregnant with him, there seemed to be almost too much information. The parenting books I obsessed over made it all sound so cut and dry, simple...if this happens then do this. What surprised me the most was actually how ill prepared I felt. None of the baby books mentioned "thinking on your feet" or calling friends for support...tricks I now use regularly. What still distresses me is that when I "think on my feet" I, inside, feel like that is not good enough. In this world of how-to...become a millionaire, live the life you want, find the dream job, raise the perfect kid, I have realize that there is no exact science to any of this. It is all about following your gut and hoping that that is good enough.



“I didn’t do it!” said my son.
“Then who did?” I asked again, exasperated.
"Langston did.” said Langston.

I am now completely confused. I glance over my shoulder looking for the candid camera. Why on earth is my son, referring to himself in third person? As if he is not really Langston but someone else. I am also a bit alarmed.

“Well,” I say, trying to be cool “tell him not do it anymore.”
He, being both the first and the second Langston agree, trots happily back upstairs to his train set.

The beginning of this bizarre conversation occurred when he came downstairs, upset, to tell me how Langston had knocked over his trains. I assumed he was talking about himself, since not only do we not know another Langston but there was no one up in his room with him, at least not that I knew of.

As I watch his body turn the corner up the stairs, I begin to panic. First, I run upstairs just to make sure that some strange man is not lurking and playing in my son's room. OK no one's there…I checked the closet and under the bed…in every room.

I check in with Langston one more time. “So, who knocked down your trains?”
"Langston did” he nonchalantly answers.
“And is this Langston a friend of yours?” I inquire.
"No” he looks at me half smiling, like he is talking to the town fool “It’s me.”
“So you knocked down your train?”
“No” comes his exasperated answer “Langston did.”
And with that he turns his back to me and continues to play.

I immediately gather all the baby bibles in our house and consult them, feverishly. I am simultaneously checking all search engines. Is this normal? I don’t remember reading about this. Check the index. What would you call this syndrome? Invisible friend, pronoun confusion, schizophrenia? All I come up with is some ludicrous articles on ‘Imaginary friends.’ Knowing that I will be questioned about this by the plethora of doctors we will see, I decide not to skip the article.

I then do what every rational mother would do…I launch into full blown mother panic.

This is a special type of parenting panic that is reserved for parents of first children or only children. The parent, usually the mother, has surrounded herself with baby bibles to ensure that the first few years of the child’s life are filled with chatter, colorful educational toys and lots, and lots of attention, to ensure that she does everything "right." The parent believes what is written in the books and believes that the first few years are CRUCIAL to having a sweet, honest, non argumentative, smart child. The parent has also read about EVERY illness on the face of the planet that could mame, scar, infect or do other great harm to her child.

So, in parent panic mode, I immediately began to make plans on where we will be moving to send Langston to the best psychiatric hospital in the world, how we will fight all doctors to get the best diagnosis and treatment because he has some rare kind of brain malfunction that will make him extremely smart and…extremely weird.

My husband and I will live in a tiny apartment that looks out into an alley way. It will be in a questionable neighborhood. But it is the closest we can get to the hospital were Langston will be treated. Our lives will revolve around our son’s mental well-being. I will put off having more kids. I will put off buying nice clothes and wearing makeup. After years of such motherly devotion, battling doctors and lobbying congress, a new drug will be found that will allow Langston to lead a ‘normal life.’ I will struggle with letting him go, but in the end will do it with tears in my eyes. We will then write a book, do the talk show circuit and make a movie deal. My son will play himself in the older years.

But first, before I call the moving company, I need to check one more time, to make sure that no one has snuck in through the locked front door or window, passed by me and is now upstairs playing with my child, waiting for the right moment to snatch him from the second floor of our house. In hindsight, I am admittedly a bit embarrassed, but in that moment, I would have decked anyone who suggested I was overreacting.

After about an hour of more research, I chang my diagnosis to imaginary friends. Much relieved, call my husband back and tell him he doesn’t need to check into what kind of family medical leave his school offers.

All the parenting books advised against asking the child about his/her imaginary friend. Their advice? Let it be. The friend would eventually disappear.

They did not live with my son. Every day, Langston would continue to tell on himself. Langston forgot to brush his teeth. Langston ripped the head off the Lego. Langston turned on the TV. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and going against the advice of all those “specialist,” I confronted this issue.

"He hit the dog!” Langston said
“Who is he?” I asked
“Langston” he answered, a bit annoyed
“You mean you hit the dog?”
“No” with a ‘geeze woman, are you even listening’ tone “Langston did it.”
Seeing this is going no where, I say “Oh.”
“Is he in trouble?” Langston asked
“No, just tell him not to hit the dog.” I gave up

A few days later, I overheard one of his conversations with himself. Langston picked up a ball and said with great command in his voice, “Langston, NO. Don’t throw that ball” I thought to myself, well at least it's one less thing I have to tell him.

No Drinks, Please

What is it with fast food places? Yes, I just typed “fast food.” I know I am not supposed to feed my kids, let alone myself that crap but.....when it is 5:30 and we are supposed to be at some school outdoor-picnic-movie thing at 6:00 and it is Friday, which means there is no food in the house, and we have 15 minutes to get 6 shoes on 6 feet, 3 sweaters over 3 heads, pack a bag with a blanket and haul 5 chairs out to the car...”fast food” has a very nice ring to it.

Besides, I feel a great motherly warmth when I suggest fast food to the kids and they go wild with excitement. They don't get it often so it'd deemed as a great treat. Besides, I don’t do the soda thing. And that, my friend, is the end of my guilt.

So there we were, my family and I, in our car ordering fast food. Then came the question, "What kind of drinks did you want with the kid's meals?"
"No drinks."
“Did you just say ‘no drinks?’” asks the clerk.
“That’s correct, no drinks, please.”
"But the meals come with drinks." says the alarmed clerk. She is probably thinking surely this man (my husband) wouldn't just give away the drinks he just paid for?
"Yes, I know, but no drinks please." he says politely and clearly.
Again, just to make sure there are no mistakes, he says “No drinks.”
“Oookaaayy,” says the clerk, shaking her head with her voice, “that will be $17.65. Please drive around to the next window (so I can get a better look at the weirdoes who don’t want drinks).
At the pick up window, a different person collects the money and starts to put our order together.
“What kind of drinks do you want with that?” he asks
“No drinks, please” I lean across my husband and say with a smile, knowing full well what is about to be said.
“But the kid’s meals come with drinks!” he says, as if I just told him to hold the burger and give me the bun.
“No dr….” I am interrupted
“Just give us the empty cups!” my husband yells exasperated.
That was the magic word, “cups.” Just give us the empty cups.
The clerks facial expression relaxed, his shoulders went down and he returned immediately to the routine he had been accustomed to.
With in a few minutes, we pulled away from the window with our food and our empty cups. All was, once again, right in the world.

An Introduction

I am Kim Thompson Hamer, not Kimberly Thompson Hamer, but Kim. My parents gave my two sisters and I one syllable names. They didn’t want anyone knick naming us. So everyone did. I have been called Hamer, Hammer, and Kimmy. I have yet to thank my parents for that decision. Lately I will answer to momma, honey and if said in a sing songy tone, hey you.

My Childhood was spent…running up and down a hill sledding, door bell ditch playing, lady who gave out butterscotch candy, no car driving, big back yards street with 32 houses, and 24 kids. I was never bored

I have had the mumps, measles, and other childhood illnesses, but we are not sure if I have ever had the chicken pox.

I got through childhood with only 16 stitches and 1 broken bone, my leg. I learned to use my cast as a weapon 3 days before I got it off. I was 4 years old. Apparently they were really long days.

One time my dad taught my sisters and I how to punch. Soon after our lessons, I punched a boy for making my sister cry. My youngest sister punched a boy for making me cry. My middle sister punched me. My dad was proud of all the punching.


In search of myself....
I have biked 3,421 miles across the country. I have backpacked through the Colorado Rockies and walked, trained and hitchhiked 2, 649 miles across East Africa. Oh and I have been to Europe, twice…once on a bike.

I had giardia, which you get from drinking untreated water and have contracted a weird illness in Uganda that my grandmother still takes about.

I was once an EMT (think ambulance). I have given CPR, and saved 4 lives. I have delivered a baby on a bathroom floor and I have watched a 16 year old go from alert and scared slide quietly and quickly into death.

In search of myself, I have lost myself. I became a bulimic. I ran away from home, not returning for a year. I tried to commit suicide.

I was too short to be a fashion model….I thank God for that everyday.

Then one day, I stepped out of my own way....
and met my husband who proposed to me, in a quaint New England town square under a fire yellow orange big leaf maple tree and my response to his proposal was was “Are you sure about this?”

Only one of my children was born in a hospital. Two were born, at home…on purpose. My nick name is Mama because a mom takes care of her own children, a Mama takes care of all the children.

I have been hospitalized for post partum depression and, yes, I thank God for the experience too.

My car has a bike rack and a surf rack on it that gets used…..often.

I do not own a minivan and will not go quietly into the night driving one. Even though, I know once I own one, I will wonder why I didn't get one sooner.

I have gotten mad enough at my children that I have thrown a sock out of the window of a moving car, squirted them in my frustration with a water bottle and said some of those things the experts say you're never supposed to say to your children. I am here to claim all that in my motherness, and to let you all know that I know you moms have done that too and…..we have not been struck dead.

We have two saving funds for each of our children. One for education, and one for psycho therapy. I make a lot of mistakes as a mother.

I talk very quickly when I am excited.

I write.

I swim, bike and run all in one race. Once I was a homeschooling, triathlete mother. But now I am just a triathlete mother.

I am afraid of not living my dreams, so I read them to myself ever day.

I am one year old…in the journey into a life without a parent.

I will work at staying married until I die. I do not want to die anytime soon.

I can change the oil, spark plugs, battery and the tires on my car, but I let the mechanic do it so he can earn money.

At the age of 41, I finally like my body!

I laugh loudly.

My children’s names are Langston, Pallas and Ezra…two were named for the writers and one for the Goddess of Wisdom. They have no middle names because they have hyphenated last names and I didn’t want anyone to knick name them. I am sure they will thank me for this one day.