Sophie is a Momma, putting me to bed and refusing to tolerate any of the delay-tactic shenanigans that I actually tolerate from her. Then Sophie is a baby, crawling on the floor. Sophie is pretending to change her own baby-doll’s diaper. Sophie is pretending that it’s an incredibly stinky diaper, and I get to pretend to say “ewwww.” Then we both have to be silent, because baby-doll is going to sleep.
Sophie is a fireman. Then she is the kid’s-folk musician Hullabaloo, singing each of Hullabaloo’s songs, adorably. Then a bird. Then, eventually, Sophie is Spiderman, who, as far as she knows, is a huge eater of interesting spidey-food. Sophie has never seen Spiderman, but she knows that a friend in daycare is a big fan.
Then Sophie tells me it is raining and we need to put on our jackets right right now and stand under an invisible umbrella or maybe an actual blanket. This pervasive rain fantasy of hers may be the largest legacy of our trip to Britain.
Sophie is doing the dishes in her play-kitchen, while casually murmuring “Oh-my-gosh.” She is cleaning the floor. Then she is going to school. Or work. Sophie’s work is pink, she tells me. Pink and blue and green and black.
A monster is coming, she announces, and we all must firmly declare, “Monster, leave me alone.” So we do.
I’m pretty sure that all this fantasizing is a normal stage of child development. I’m pretty sure she knows that the umbrella is invisible, not real. I’m pretty sure that telling fantasy-monsters to go away is good practice for adulthood. I hope so, because the other option is that my child is insane.
UPDATE: a friend at yoga informed me that, if we actually did a psychological evaluation of anyone under 5, every single toddler would be diagnosed as a bipolar schizophrenic. So I feel better, sorta.