Imaginary Keith has been corralled into painting a bedroom over at the ex’s new house, and right now he’s off gathering supplies. At the moment the room is bright pink, with a cute little top border of dancing girls, which I think is just fine. I mean, doesn’t every growing boy enjoy being surrounded by dancing girls? But if he wants to waste a perfectly fine, cold, wet, and rainy morning painting someone else’s house, who am I to stop him?
I tried to tell him that we should just leave it pink. I thought it would make for a nice experiment, with most of the work already done. Just throw the boy in and see what comes out in ten years. “Let’s just leave it pink and see what happens,” I tried to suggest, but he wouldn’t have it.
I swear. Imaginary friends are such hypocrites. With his eager willingness to experiment on other people’s babies, but not his own, about half the time it feels more like I’ve conjured up a politician to share my time with, and not the big, lovable oaf I had in mind.