It’s role-playing time at my house. Pretend-time. We’ve all been assigned new names and personalities by the house’s resident toddler, who saunters about rooms pointing at people and telling them who they are.
“You are Dora,” she tells me, and suddenly I’ve switched genders altogether. Forget that I’m a guy, or that I don’t want to be a little pint-sized cartoon character. I plead for something else. Anything!
“No,” she says sweetly, the word trailing on in a squeaky singsong like it has to hit every note on the scale. “You are Dora.”
So, now I’m Dora, the Explorer.
“Dora,” she is saying to me right now, tugging on my arm as I type, “play with me.”
Who am I anymore? I’m confused. It’s been that way in my house recently. We’ve all become cartoon characters. My wife is now Diego from “Go, Diego, Go!” and my daughter has ditched the name we spent so much time coming up with and adopted Alicia, the name of Diego’s sister. Neighbors walking by call out, “Hi Amelie,” only to have her call back, “No, I’m Alicia!”
They stare, scratch their heads and wonder if they’ve been mistakenly calling her the wrong name for almost three years. “I could have sworn that kid’s name was Amelie,” they must wonder to themselves. “And his name I’m certain wasn’t Dora.”
The dog — the poor dog! — has not only changed sexes, but she’s had her entire species changed. Now she’s known as “baby jaguar.” I can think of few things in the world more humiliating than a dog being turned into a member of a species that is its sworn enemy.
But that’s childhood for you. When else in life could you pull off such a thing? It’s not like I can just walk into work and announce, “Good morning everyone. From now on, please call me ‘Jo-Jo Dancer.'” I would be committed immediately.
Kids can do this. We find it cute. We laugh and marvel at their ability to pretend, be creative and latch on to brand-names and child-targeted marketing. “Isn’t it sweet how she’s performing all this free advertising for corporate stooges and advertising geniuses. And you thought our little girl didn’t believe in the free-market system.”
It does get a little crazy. With children, I’m finding, playtime never really ends. We don’t reach a point where we all go back to our regular identities, and this often confuses a guy like me.
So this is a typical night in my house:
Me: Amelie, please go pick up your shoes.
Amelie: No, Alicia.
Me: What?
Amelie: My name is Alicia.
Me: No, it’s not. It’s Amelie. Now please pick up your shoes. Your mother asked you to do that an hour ago.
Amelie: No, Diego.
Me: Who? I thought you were Alicia?
Nancy: No, I’m Diego. She’s Alicia.
Me: Well, somebody better pick up those shoes ‘cus I know Chase ain’t going to do it.
Amelie: No, she’s baby jaguar.
At this point I give up and run out of the house screaming, only to hear, “Dora, come back. Where are you going?”
Of course, when I play along, I don’t realize the game has changed. I walk into the room and say, “Alicia, Diego, I’m going to take baby jaguar for a walk.”
My wife shakes her head as my daughter corrects me: “No, she’s the baby. I’m the momma and Chase is a pirate.”
I turn around, march out and go in search of aspirin.
So I’ll go about my business with a family whom I don’t even know anymore. Soon we’ll start to introduce each other in public as Diego, Dora and Alicia. And hopefully the poor dog, confused and desperate to find out who she really is, won’t head off to the jungles of South America looking for her jaguar kin.