At 1:30 a.m. last night, I heard children screaming and
playing outside. It was hard to hear
above the fast whir of the ceiling fan and the attic fan in the hallway rumbling
through the house, so I kept on snoozing, not really paying attention to why
they were out so late in the street. And
then as I came to a bit more, I recognized that what I thought was playful
screaming, sounded more like frantic cries for help coming from the street
below. There were children outside who
needed help, and it finally occurred to me that I needed to help them. I bolted out of bed and started heading down
the hallway for the stairs when I realized that the child who was screaming
frantically in need of help was in my house at the end of the hall. When I threw open his door, there was Finny
lying in bed, kicking at his sheets, screaming and panicked.
“There’s a snake in my bed!
THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY BEEEEEEDDD!”
When I scooped him up, he was shaking from head to toe. I turned on the lights and I flipped back his
sheets. No snakes. I got down on all fours and I flipped up the
bedskirt. No snakes.
“It was just a bad dream, Finn. No snakes can get into our house.”
But as we walked down the hall hand-in-hand to our bedroom
dragging his blankie and teddy, he said, “I hope that snake doesn’t get my baby.”
And despite the fact that I know rationally and reasonably
that he had had a bad dream, that there had never been a snake, I still had
terrifying visions of finding Charlie in the morning strangled in black coils.
Imagination.
Finny’s imagination is one of the greatest pleasures of my
day. It is constant and delightful and
it takes us places everyday that bring us out of the confines of our brick and
mortar.
I have been Kitty Softpaws (the heroine of Puss in Boots) for three days in a row now. If I ever fail to address Finny as Puss, he
gently and sometimes not so gently reminds me that he is Puss and that we are still playing the game. On Wednesday morning, I opened the door to
his room to get him up and there he was kneeling on his bed in the dark,
whispering, “Kitty Softpaws, come here.
I have something in my hand.”
As I approached, he held out his clenched fist and said, “Open
it.”
When I opened his little fingers, he looked deep into my
eyes and with a gleam and a smile, purred, “It’s the magic beans.” And so our day began. I knew my role. I had gotten my cue. And we were off in search of the perfect spot
to plant our beanstalk.
Charlie had been assigned the role of Humpty Alexander
Dumpty, and after breakfast when I was yelling at Charlie to get down off the
kitchen table, which he is now fond of climbing up on, Finny’s concern for
Charlie was clear, “Yes, Kitty, get Humpty down, or else he might crack.”
Some days I’m Serabi from The Lion King. Other days I’m
Shanti from The Jungle Book and David
is Baloo the Bear.
Mommy, today we are
playing Fire-Breathing Dragons. Mommy, today
we are playing Hippopotamuses Eat Mice.
Mommy, today we are playing Octopuses Eat Jellyfish.
Finny’s imagination is captivating and I enjoy the days he
has planned for us. Two sticks at the
park become boyfriend and girlfriend.
The playground is a pirate ship.
His bread crust is a bridge for an army of grapes. And at any moment, his fingers can become
spider legs and crawl across the table.
His narrative is always writing new chapters so I should not
be surprised when it follows him into his dreams and awakens there looking real
and terrifying in the shape of a cobra in his bed.
All I can do is be there for him to remind him of what’s
real and what’s imagined when the nightmares come.
And then say a prayer and convince myself that I’m right. That snakes can’t get into our house…not even
through the air ducts…nope, not possible…
