When We Grow Up, So Do Our Imaginary Friends--Somewhere

One of the hardest parts of watching your kids grow up is seeing them leave a particularly charming phase. There are some moments that even your camcorder can’t preserve.

Like other mothers, I’d never want to return to those thrilling days of infant colic. The terrible twos is a territory I’ll gladly not revisit. But I would happily turn back the clock to when my daughter Hannah was 3 and had not just one imaginary playmate but a whole imaginary social scene.

The crowd included a man named John Shelton, who took Hannah to museums; a woman named Cindy Helleson, who went with them; and an outdoorsman named Fred DeForrest. These were the adults. But there were also the kids--Deedee and Jonathan--and their imaginary pet dog, Poopoo.

Except for the dog, the etymology of these characters eluded the rest of the family. Years after the introduction of Fred DeForrest, someone remembered that once, on a camping trip when Hannah was around 2, we had been helped with a flat tire by a forest ranger named Fred.

I had also forgotten that during her fourth year, Hannah herself was an imaginary dog named Snuffy.

The whole cast of characters was recalled recently in the offices of Joseph Wampler, kiddie dentist. Hannah and I were seated with other anxious mothers and children awaiting the dread call to the inner chamber. Your modern, enlightened kiddie dentist seats his clients en masse like a barber, hoping that group pressure will prevent anyone from freaking out. It works well except for the occasional episode of mass hysteria.

The tension in Dr. Wampler’s waiting room was so thick that you could bite it with a lateral incisor. Those who were building block towers on the floor soon wrecked them with extreme gusto. Those communing with invisible companions did so with reckless abandon.

Finally, the office lady began calling out the names of the intended victims. “Amy Schultz, Jason Gordon, LeToya Roberts, Samantha and Danielle Reinis. . . .” And then she said, “Snuffy--Snuffy Kahn. . . .” Everybody laughed. Hannah and I looked at each other strangely.

I suddenly remembered that at the time of her initial visit, five years ago, Hannah was inhabited by Snuffy. When I filled out her medical history form, there was a question about whether the child had any nicknames. That’s how the name on her chart got to be Hannah/Snuffy Kahn.

This incident triggered a discussion of what the heck ever happened to John Shelton, Cindy Helleson and the rest of the gang. “Cindy Helleson is working as a cook at the Hard Rock Cafe London,” Hannah told me without hesitation.

It was time to update the bios of the significant imaginary others: “Deedee is in junior high. . . . Jonathan’s in the sixth grade. . . . John Shelton took a hike. . . . Fred DeForrest is in the city, enjoying the views. . . . Poopoo died and was replaced by a white French poodle named Fifi. . . .”

I wished I could account with that much certainly for the whereabouts of Picklepuss and Joe Geronimo.

Those two were last seen in Chicago in 1950. They were the creations of me and my sister, Myrna. They generally made their appearance when people walked by our apartment building. I would scream out the window, “Oh no, Picklepuss.” Then Myrna would yell, “Joe Geronimo!” and we would duck and laugh. We found this even funnier than leaving a purse filled with mud on the sidewalk and watching passers-by open it.

Occasionally, we would select strangers at random from the phone book and repeat the Joe Geronimo scenario. I have no idea now why Myrna and I found this dialogue incredibly hilarious--milk-through-the-nose hilarious. Nor can I explain how our imaginary friends came and went from our lives.

Somewhere out there in Pretendsville, the Picklepusses and the Fred DeForrests and the Deedees and the late Poopoos must surely be wondering whatever happened to all the real people they used to know.