THE IMAGINARY FRIEND

Emma Mackley - 26 Mar 15

Imaginary friends: some kids have them, some don’t. But what happens when your child’s imaginary friend turns out to be a man in a blue t-shirt, apparently living in your house?

I should explain. I have a four year old daughter who likes to talk, a lot. Quite often it’s with an American accent, and mostly revolves around: princesses, best friends, things that are pink and more princesses. I had assumed that should she acquire an imaginary friend, they would fall into one of the above categories. A fellow pig-tail wearing girl with a quirky name. Unfortunately not.

It started about a year ago we were merrily playing with the toys in our lounge. She asked  “Mummy, why is that man crouched down behind your back?”

After craning my neck around, with the hairs standing on end and my heart beating faster than usual, I began to probe further. “What does this man look like darling” I laughed nervously. He was apparently wearing a blue t-shirt. “Does he live in our house?” She shrugged, bored now of this line of questioning and went back to talking about princesses again.

After dissecting this particular incident with my mother, the husband, various friends and of course posting it on Facebook, I actually forgot about it. Until that was, a few weeks later when she asked me during bath time what our new friend was “whispering in my ear?” Our lovely house guest was also spotted in the garden at one stage too (why couldn’t he muck in with the weeding whilst out there at least?)

Ok, so I know what you’re thinking – but we actually live in a house less than 10 years old. And yes, I have Googled what was here before – as someone helpfully suggested, although I found no record of  an ancient burial ground or ruins of an asylum (I have good friends). Thankfully, there are no disturbing records relating to our house, road, vicinity. Phew. But seriously, what the HELL was that all about?

You should also know, I’m not really into the supernatural or anything remotely spooky at all. This is because I am officially a wimp, a cowardy custard, a scaredy cat. I have nightmares watching Jonathan Creek for god’s sake. Don’t even get me started on Midsomer Murders.

But I did start thinking about my own childhood, perhaps this is some sort of inherited ‘gift’ cruelly closed off by my mind after years of living in a cynical world? Perhaps I have a deeply spiritual aura, and a connection with the afterlife? Apparently not. A consultation with my family revealed I once had an imaginary camel who sat on the back of my bike and accompanied me to picnics, and an array of very unimaginatively named toys including dog, rabbit and blanket (if I were an A-list celebrity presumably these would be applauded baby names).

I did some online research, and according to Supernanny ‘Children use their fantasy friends to practice verbal skills, boost confidence and role play.’ She forgot to add ‘to frighten their parents.’ Supernanny also claims ‘Kids with imaginary friends have been found to be more articulate, have improved creativity and higher self-esteem.’ Not to mention  a very dark sense of humour…

The thing is my daughter is really quite funny. She’s a bit of a joker who knows exactly what she’s doing and comes up with the best one-liners: ‘Mummy, why is your face cracked like an egg?’

Naturally, a large proportion of what she does talk about is utter nonsense. She tells my two year old that we’re not his real family (unfortunately for him, we are), blames her toy rabbit when something breaks, and makes Barbie argue with Peppa Pig about what to eat for breakfast.

But where does this leave me? Believing we have a house guest who likes to join in with bathtime, or that my daughter just likes to babble, make things up, and generally scare her mother? Anyone???

Thankfully there have been no mentions of our house guest since. Perhaps he’s moved somewhere a bit more welcoming? Of course, these conversations will make for great stories to tell her when she’s a teenager.

By then, we will have moved, far far away. Just to be sure….

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Photo credit: Aleksander Smid at ArtLimited.

Emma Mackley

Emma lives in Surrey and is mum to 4 year old aspiring princess and 2 year old handbag-wearing boy. When she's not running around after them, or buried under a mountain of washing, Emma is a freelance PR manager.

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