Terry Marotta:
Good Imaginations Run in the Family

I have two daughters, the older of whom became a parent in 2004.

Her younger sister Annie and I babysat one evening in the first year of little Eddie's life and you know how that is what with the bath and the diaper, the lullaby and the book. We did it as a team, using the four-page list of instructions that had been left for us, and almost had the child in his crib before I realized we'd missed a step.

"We forgot tooth-brushing!" I wailed.

"Hey, he's not our kid," said the child's young aunt with a mischievous smile.

She was joking of course but that's how Annie is. The more primly earnest things become, the likelier she is to get sassy.

Fast forward now to the present when the two of us found ourselves again caring for Eddie, only this time for the whole weekend.

We did fine, mostly. He rode his pint-size bike on the smooth street, the two of us trotting anxiously alongside like Secret Service agents. We made sales pitches on proper eating, and both gently chided him when he told us how superheroes eat only poop.

But later, our two styles diverged: Walking in the woods one morning we passed a wee abandoned cabin. "Who lived THERE?" Eddie asked, riveted.

"An old, old fisherman," I began in my best ghost-story voice.

Annie shot me a look, then turned to Eddie.  "I think a delightful gnome lived there!"

"Really?" said Eddie ignoring her completely. "And did the old fisherman have a DOG?"

"Why yes he did," I said in my same spooky voice. "And even now on cold winter nights you can sometimes hear him h-o-o-o-o-w-ling!"

"Auntie" shot me another look, which is pretty funny because the next day with her behind the wheel in my car and Eddie and I in back, she was the one who didn't belong in the pre-school when Eddie began using his imaginary two-way radio to get his superhero pals to put all these other drivers in secret jails.

"But what ARE secret jails?" he interrupted himself to ask.

"Secret jails are bad," said Annie.

"Why, Auntie?"

"Because in a democracy you can't have prisons that nobody knows about.  In a democracy you have to have transparency."

"Transparency?" repeated Eddie and when Annie looked in the rearview mirror to say more to him she saw me, smiling from ear to ear.

Who can say what imprint will remain in the Silly Putty of a young mind? Maybe Eddie will grow up to be a Poli Sci major with a belief in benevolent elf life.

Or, he could just be a total Drama Boy because earlier that same day when Annie opened the door of our dark little tool-shed he yelled, "This is where my unicorn lived before she died!" Then after a ragged breath, "She was my only fwiend! I have no other fwiends!" Then, after a last choking sob, "That unicorn was my LIFE!"

Well whatever little Eddie becomes one thing is for sure-enough sure: he's our kid all right.

Write Terry at tmarotta@comcast.net, or care of Ravenscroft press at PO Box 270, Winchester, Mass. 01890 or check in at her blog Exit Only at www.terrymarotta. wordpress.com.