I’m mourning the death of my child’s imaginary friend | Canada Voices

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

There are a lot of parenting articles on “what to expect.” What to expect when you bring your baby home from the hospital. What to expect at your first pediatrician appointment. What to expect on your child’s first day of school. I read all of these and consume social media parenting advice like it’s oxygen. I cling to the advice of the “experts” and their promise of raising emotionally intelligent, kind, happy little humans. But even armed with all the advice the internet has to offer, I was wholly unprepared for the day that my child came home from kindergarten and announced that his imaginary friend was dead.

Death was a bit of a new concept in our house that arrived after exposure to video games. Mario’s frequent onscreen deaths seemed benign to our five-year-old. Despite our many explanations about the finality and seriousness of death, without the passing of a beloved family member or pet, the notion remained hypothetical and, thankfully, entirely pixelated.

My son’s imaginary friend was named Ceedee, and had been a constant presence in our family life for the past 18 months. He was, inexplicably, a nonagenarian British man who worked at the train station on Thursdays and did odd drywall jobs in August. Ceedee had two fully grown adult children and was also the business partner in my lawnmower-loving child’s imaginary landscaping and equipment repair company. He started off with humble beginnings, living in a Dollarama birdhouse under our dining room table, but quickly branched out to have all sorts of grand adventures. Ceedee had travelled extensively and had opinions on everything (including our dinner offerings), although those views tended to reflect the experiences of a sheltered, splash-pad-loving kindergartener rather than an elderly businessman. Through a big move, a new school and lots of change and uncertainty, it became clear that our son, an only child, was filtering his entire world view through this fictional companion.

“Well, Ceedee …” became the starter of many sentences, typically containing a rather scathing commentary about the subjects at hand. The solution of many well-meaning relatives for curbing Ceedee’s influence on our kiddo was to “give him a sibling.” Parental wishes and financial constraints aside, there was no way a baby could possibly replace a 90-year-old with such a fascinating backstory.

There was a point when my husband, exhausted by the endless onslaught of Ceedee stories, implemented a moratorium on Ceedee talk. My son’s response to this ban was to turn to me as the sole recipient of Ceedee stories, which I relished. I found these stories provided fascinating insight into our creative child’s mind, even if they were drawn-out, convoluted and often boring, the way that young children’s stories often are. We were almost conspiratorial as we hunkered down for him to share escapade after escapade, punctuated only by my “oh reallys” and “you don’t says,” basking in the connection these moments provided.

Ceedee stories had greatly reduced in frequency in the months leading up to this fateful day, but I was not prepared for my son to casually stroll in after school and announce that, at the ripe old age of 101, Ceedee had frozen to death climbing a mountain in Greeksica (an imaginary country with the climate of Greenland and the architecture of Dubai). The death of the imaginary friend struck my husband and me differently. He was thrilled that we had finally moved on from this phase. I, on the other hand, soundlessly sobbed into the carrots I was chopping for dinner, mourning yet another “last” that I wasn’t prepared for.

Turns out, Ceedee was far too singular for our son. He now has a full pretend world, with new countries, cities, weather patterns, foods and unique Olympic sports. But instead of sharing the details with me, it’s now the neighbour kids with him as they traipse all over this imaginary landscape that seems so very real to him. I hear snippets of their adventures from the next room as I try to ignore the temptation to join right in.

While I grieve the ending of the Ceedee stage and the closeness he brought, I eagerly lean into the next stage, knowing that this time with my child is fleeting. I realize that no parenting advice in the world will help keep him little and eager to share his ideas with his mother. I know that in the very near future, that magical door into his mind will close off, leaving me on the outside.

Krista Westmaas lives in Vaughan, Ont.