Imaginary Pals

I'm in the kitchen preparing Steph's Special Mac N'Cheese - "special" because it's my attempt at upgrading a 4-year-old palate to the culinary delights of fettucine tossed with sauteed garlic, broccoli, cream and gorgonzola - when said child enters the kitchen and announces:

Bumble-Age (pronounced "ahhh-jjj") is tied up under the sink. He's not nice. He does mean things. Where's the phone?

Not missing a beat but suspisciously eyeing the cabinet I tell him where to find the telephone and listen as he rings up "the police" from the living room. Finishing the conversation, he re-enters the gourmet room to inform:

The police are coming to get Bumble-Age.

And true to parallel universe form, the police arrive within a minute. Rapha opens the door, has a quick chat with the officers and thanks them before saying good-bye.

He's gone. Whew! Good thing because Belle-Age (also pronounced with the long, French "ahhh" and soft "g") is coming over to play and Bumble-Age is mean to her

The fact that my child has an imagination is fantastic. The fact that he gives his friends sophisticated, French sounding names is tres cool. The fact that there's more than one explains why he's in our bed every night - his must get crowded.

But the next bit sent me sailing to the computer to run Google, psycho-analytic searches:

You know, Belle-Age is really nice to me. She used to bring me bottles to my bed when I was a baby in San Francisco.

Like, Oh My God!!! How long have these two been around? Chills running down my spine, I'm thinking: Is this like the movies? Does Rapha see dead people?

I don't want to go there, really, because I've read my fair share of Jung's delvings into the supernatural and let's just say there have been sleepless nights with the lights on.

But no worries. According to Babycenter.com this is a healthy and normal thing for a kid his age and points towards a propensity for creativity.

So I'm not worried. I ask occasionally about his two friends and as far as I know, they haven't been joined by a whole gaggle having parties or dipping into the liquor cabinet every night after lights out.

I especially don't have to worry, I guess, because as of last night Bumble-Age is still in the clinker and Belle-Age met with the terrible fate of falling off the Golden Gate Bridge and being consumed by sharks. She couldn't swim, Rapha reported with a shrug. Like the sharks would care.

To Be Continued....