11. Bambi
Katherine D. Bennett
(First published in The Lathrop News, June 12, 1997)
When my daughter was small, she loved to make believe and pretend. Everything had life in it, and she listened closely to the world to hear every whisper. She was just about three when she saw the movie Bambi for the first time. She was enthralled with the experience, though I have often wondered if parts of it are too intense for a small child. We watched the video together the first time, and I was glad I was there to hold her when Bambi’s mother was killed because she cried so hard. The movie was very real to her, and she watched it over and over for several days. Then she pretended.
First she was Faline, then she was Bambi. After that she pretended to be the lady skunk and spent an afternoon languidly peering through my orange feather duster as if it were a bushy tail. She played out the cast of characters one by one. Then she moved them all into the house.
All at once my house was a pretend menagerie all full of pretend animals. At first I didn’t mind. Lydia played happily through the day, having all kinds of adventures with her creatures. Then the little beasts took over.
“Mommy!” Lydia would shriek. “Don’t sit dere! Dere’sa wabbit! Ahhhh. You mashed it.” Or this might happen. “Mommy! You gotta help. Bear is stucked! He in de figerdator. He needs ice cream.”
It seemed I spent entire days carefully not stepping on invisible bunnies or worse, sitting on poor, sweet , mommy birds. Lydia would trail after me, scolding me for injuring her pets or consoling her figments, nursing them rapidly back to health so they could get back under my feet. I realized something needed to be done.
I really wanted to resolve this problem without crushing my child’s creativity. Luckily, I had an idea, and the idea worked. Lydia was busily gathering up invisible baby birds, and was warming up a good lecture aimed at me for stepping on their little tails when the idea came to me in a rare flash of intuition. I marched to the door and dramatically I flung it open.
“Okay, all you creatures! It is time for you to go home!” I glared around the room commandingly. “I mean all of you! You birds! Off the chandelier, out, out, OUT! Bear, off my furniture! Out the door! Go home!”
Silently I prayed that no one would drive by and see me dramatically tossing imaginary raccoons out of my home. Lydia stood stock still, astonishment on her face.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here! Mommy! You tan’t do dat!”
“Oh, yes I can,” I replied sternly. “When your friends are rude and don’t use good manners, they have to go home.”
“Tan dey tome back t’morrow?” she asked.
“Only if they stay off the furniture and out of my kitchen.
“O-tay,” she agreed, satisfied.
“How about we do a puzzle together?” I suggested.
“O-tay,” she smiled up at me.
We got out the puzzles and started working on one when Lydia abruptly stopped and regarded me with a long deep considering stare. She patted my arm, her face full of loving concern.
“Mommy,” she said using a gentle, cooing voice. “Honey, you know all dem an’mals was p’tend, right?” She watched my face intently.
“Yes, baby girl. I know,” I assured her.
She smiled, relieved. “Dat’s good.”
And then, we continued working on our puzzle, at peace with each other, uninterrupted by bears or birds.