Goodbye to an Imaginary Friend

My 4-year-old son’s friend has vanished.

His name is Norey Porto and we realized that he was missing this winter.

Norey was Cord’s imaginary playmate, and after spending a significant amount of time with us during the last three years, Norey has gone the way of baby bottles and potty chairs.

But since this perfectly normal, age-appropriate milestone occurred, the strangest thing has happened: I’ve started to miss old Norey. My husband and 7-year-old daughter, when quizzed, have made similar reluctant confessions.

Are we in mourning for Cord’s lost toddler-hood? Is this one of those bittersweet passage-of-time things?

Naw. I think we’re pining for Norey himself and his odd family and their lavish lifestyle, all courtesy of the imaginings of our budding wordsmith.

It’s like when a good movie ends and you know there’s not going to be a sequel because the actors have moved on to other projects and are demanding too much money, anyway. In fact, Norey had developed an extended fan club of our family and friends, who frequently asked for new chapters in what I came to call the Norey Chronicles.

Maybe it’s because Norey was always up to something interesting that, if nothing else, gave a hint of what was going on in my son’s mind.

Norey had adventures. Norey’s family had many endearing quirks. And Norey owned lots of cool stuff, at least in my son’s estimation.

A boy of indeterminate age with dark hair and green eyes, Norey lived near us in a house painted black with blue trim, but he also maintained homes in Arkansas and Oklahoma and Africa to which he and his family would frequently travel.

Norey’s mom was so tall that she could touch the ceiling without jumping. Her name was Kalik. Norey’s dad was tall, too, sometimes, and sometimes he was very short. His name was Tor.

For one Valentine’s Day, Norey’s mom found a dead snake and cooked it and Norey’s dad ate it. One time, she cooked a frog for Norey’s dad and he ate the whole thing, even the eyes.

Norey had a sister but somebody stepped on her and she died. But he got a new sister. She was a baby and drank out of Power Ranger bottles.

Norey had more birthday parties than any kid on Earth, or, in his case, not on this Earth. Norey owned virtually every toy manufactured. OK, no Barbies. But lots of other toys.

And Norey had pets. Many, many pets.

Norey had five dogs and five cats and five bunnies and five hamsters and five guinea pigs and five goldfish. One day all the bunnies jumped on Norey’s grandfather and knocked him on the ground and he yelled: “Hey Norey, get these bunnies off me!” (This scene was reenacted with much writhing on the floor.)

Norey acquired quite a few exotic pets as well. They included: three buffalo, a hippo, a lion, a zebra, a snake, an elephant and a hyena. He had a very large yard. The animals were all friends and never fought. Logistics such as food supply and excrement removal did not appear to be a problem.

Norey had Batman tennis shoes. When he pushed a special button he could fly.

Norey had Spider-Man tennis shoes too. When he pushed a button the shoes shot out “spider rope” that stuck to the wall and then Norey could climb like a spider.

Norey was like a filter for my son. He’d use Norey to process things he wanted or had done or had heard about. Shortly after my daughter broke her arm falling from a trapeze bar on a swing set, Norey broke his arm--you guessed it--falling from a trapeze bar on a swing set. If my son wanted a certain action figure, Norey already had it.

But now Norey is gone, along with his mother, father, baby sister No. 2, grandfather, all those exotic pets and that fashion-forward black house.

This is how it happened.

On the way to school one day, I asked my son what Norey was up to.

“Oh,” came the nonchalant reply from the back seat. “Norey is just pretend.”

I almost hit the brakes.

We drove a block in silence, digesting that news, until my daughter--the 7-year-old co-Norey-facilitator--gamely asked, “I forget--what is Norey’s mom’s name?”

“I said he’s just pretend,” my son growled.

“But . . , “ Sis persisted, in a futile attempt to revive Norey.

I could see this was not a subject to be pursued, so I quickly interrupted with: “I don’t think your brother wants to play this game right now.”

And that was that. We haven’t heard from Norey since. And there is this odd little Norey-sized void that everyone except my son is feeling.

It’s probably all for the best.

Because you know you’re in trouble when your kid’s imaginary creations have a more interesting life than you do.

Maybe there’s a 12-step program. Maybe we should rent a copy of “Harvey” and watch Jimmy Stewart wrestle with his imaginary friend. Better yet, maybe we should go to the zoo.