Do You Believe in Meeka?

“Mommy, I’m going to Meeka’s birthday party.”

Emily (4) is standing by the door. She is wearing a pink dress with white polka dots and her shiny black shoes. A small pink princess suitcase sits at her feet. Emily spent the morning packing it full of her favorite teddy bears and stuffed toys. Emily smiles and her eyes twinkle at me.

Emily has been talking about Meeka’s party all week. She’s been telling me that Meeka is having chocolate birthday cake and pink and purple balloons. The party is being held at a hotel, the same one where her friend BJ had his party last December. Yesterday Emily made a special card for Meeka and wrote her name in pink marker on the envelope.

“Why don’t you have a snack before you go?” I say with a smile.

Emily giggles and skips past her luggage into the kitchen. I notice Eric (7) hovering nearby. His lips are scrunched up and his eyes are squinted, as if he is thinking hard.

“What’s up, Buddy?” I ask.

Eric inches nearer to me. He motions for me to pull my ear closer so he can share a secret. I bend down and he whispers. “Shouldn’t we tell Emily that Meeka isn’t real?”

“It’s OK.” I tell him. “I think she knows it’s just pretend.”

Eric frowns and shakes his head. Eric is seven years old, almost eight. He can tie his shoes and ride a two-wheel bike. He knows how to add, subtract and multiply. He can read and write. In the fall, Eric will be in the second grade. Eric has reached “the age of reason.”

The age of reason. That’s when a kid is old enough to know the difference between fact and fiction. Between genuine and fake. Between real and pretend.

It’s the age when a kid will ask Mom or Dad tough, uncomfortable questions. The kind of questions parents dread. The kind of things parents try not to think about. The kind of things parents are never prepared to answer.

Like “where does the tooth fairy get all that money she leaves under kid’s pillows?” Ummmm….a wealthy benefactor? Unfortunately for me, an off the cuff answer like that only leads to more difficult questions.

As I watch Eric’s concern for Emily’s mental well being, I remember when I was six years old. I was in kindergarten in Mrs. Child’s class. One day, a magician visited our classroom. He wore a black cape with a red satin lining. A black top hat sat on his head. He had long dark hair and a mustache. He was mysterious.

The magician started his act. First, he made a bouquet of flowers pop out of his wand. I clapped and cheered. Then he pulled a fluffy white rabbit out of his hat. I clapped and cheered. Finally, he made his pretty assistant disappear and then brought her back again. I clapped and cheered. It was magic. I believed. And I was happy.

Later that day I told my Aunt Nell what I saw. Instead of clapping and cheering, she frowned.

“It wasn’t real.” She told me. “It was a trick.”

My heart sank. My lip quivered. I felt a tear run down my cheek. I stopped believing in magic that day.

I look over at Eric. I appreciate his concern for his sister. Still, I don’t want him to spoil her fun. I pull him aside and whisper to him.

“It’s important for little kids to have big imaginations.” I say. “Do you remember Andy?”

Eric gives me a puzzled look. Then I tell him about his four-year old days. He loved Toy Story and would talk about it for hours. He would make up adventures that involved him, Woody, Buzz and Andy. He had invented a whole world where they were his best friends.

I see a flicker of recognition in Eric’s eyes. A grin flashes across his face as he recalls his imagination days, when he had a pretend friend of his own. He nods and walks away.

Emily is finishing her snack now. I take her to the sink to wash her hands. When I return, I find Eric standing by the door smiling. Emily’s suitcase is next to him on the floor. Eric has his red travel bag slung over his shoulder. I can see his bubby bear, the one he has had since the day he was born, peeking out of the sack.

Now I am puzzled. “What’s up?” I ask.

Eric grins. “I’m going with Emily to Meeka’s birthday party.”

I feel a laugh burst from the bottom of my belly. “Can I come too?” I ask.