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.