Imaginary Critters I Have Known

At age 3, I could not talk. I could only utter "Ducka ducka ducka." I think I cemented my reputation as the "weird kid" at that time, and it has never really gone away. I've gotten used to it.

My one-word vocabulary did not impair my creativity. I would lay at night in my bed, my hands becoming puppets, their dialog high grumbles or low grumbles. They would tell jokes to each other, something like this:

     "RRRGGRRRGG."

     "rrrggrrgggrg"

     "hehehehehehehehe"

High comedy.

By the time I arrived at Kindergarten, I had gained language and lost some of the playfulness -- probably because my parents instructed me not to talk with my imaginary critters in public. I was still weird, but not too weird.

So, for several years, I exchanged my own imaginary menagerie for a precocious vocabulary where I used words like "flabbergasted" in fourth grade. Still weird, but not too weird.

At age 28, I discovered my imaginary playmates again. I dated someone who was, in a word, silly. My imaginary critters flourished. Let me introduce you:

• The Spidies. Imagine your hands crawling up someone's back like spiders. (My sister had a spelling list in third grade with  the words "tiny, silent, spider). They talk in squeaky voices, except for Freudian spidie, who misinterprets every phallic symbol in a bored professor voice. My favorite is very tiny very silent spidie, who is very shy.

• Mr. Snail. Make your hand into a snail with index and middle finger sticking out. He talks in a slow, mellifluous voice. He has daredevil tendencies, enjoying slamdancing and mountain climbing -- S-L-O-W-L-Y. His goal is to run a marathon.

• Cute Fluffy Wide-Eyed Things That Love You. These are fifth-dimentional creatures made of iridescent fluff, like round dandelion silk. (For the Trekkies out there, think of Cute Fluffies as the souls of Tribbles.) We can't see them. Pantomime shaping these with your hands while chortling or cooing, then throwing them at someone with a perky "pop!" People usually laugh. Sometimes they raise eyebrows.

• The Monsters. Make your hand into a fist. Big Mean Monster growls; Beefcake yells "Beefcake" in a village idiot voice, and Little Brother says "Grr" in a much less convincing voice.  They all will fall into a happy puddle if you hug them or tell them you love them.

I didn't know if I could write this. I didn't know if I could admit sending Mr. Snail across a dinner table to drink Richard's coffee (Mr. Snail had ADHD, so he falls asleep) or walking the spidies up my niece's back when she was six (Robyn, this one's for you!). I didn't know if I could admit throwing cute fluffies at my students on request when we worked the soup kitchen together back in Oneonta (I'm too scared to throw them at students here). 

I'm still a little weird, because my inner child is at the surface. Maybe I'm a lot weird. But imagine what this does for my imagination and for my writing!

Incidentally, my husband wrote a children's story about Mr. Snail and a freshly-rescued Augustus T. Cat -- who really existed -- so imagination can be contagious. Would you like to catch some?