The Devil On His Shoulder

N hops into the family room, chatting away to his stable of imaginary friends. (I probably should be impressed by the fact that they've stuck around for more than three years now, right? I should consider it a testament to my almost-6-year-old child's imagination rather than a sign of an impending psychotic break, right? RIGHT?)

He stops when he reaches me: "Mommy, can I have some Goldfish?"

"Sure."

"I'm going to have the whole bag, OK?"

"No. Put some in a bowl."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you eating a whole bag of Goldfish."

"Oh. OK." And he hops away.

Once he's cleared the family room, I hear his conversation with the imaginary friend begin again.

"Eat the whole bag," says the imaginary friend in a high, squeaky voice.

"But my Mommy said to put it in a bowl," he replies in his own voice.

"Don't do it. Eat the whole bag. Come on."

"I can't. My Mommy said so."

"You're a baby."

"I'm NOT."

"Yes, you are."

I can't stand it any more: "Baaa, Little Bit, whoever you are! Stop trying to get N in trouble," I yell into the kitchen.

"See, I told you," I hear N retort to his meddlesome friend.

"You should still eat the whole bag," the friend replies.

I hate that imaginary busybody.