I truly believe that the origin of all superstition, magic, and religion is from tired parents doing stupid things to make their toddlers stop crying. After hours of sanity-shredding sobs, yells, and hullabaloos, you will pledge allegiance to just about anything that brings a quantum of peace.
That’s why some parents have a drawer full of the same, identical toy. If the tiny Elder God loses their favorite, you jjust present a new one at the altar of their highchair and beg forgiveness. Pretty soon, these things become your Gospel because there is no feeling quite as joyous as the sudden cessation of a child’s tantrum.
In my house, this was Monkey Daddy.
I don’t know which sleep-deprived corner of my psyche Monkey Daddy came from, but he emerged fully formed one day at bedtime. The tired and thoroughly annoyed parent was replaced by a giant ape who could only speak in tonal variations of the word “banana.” Monkey Daddy’s back didn’t hurt. He could lift the child up over his head easily and run down the hall to toss them into bed. Once in bed, Monkey Daddy would tuck in the covers with exaggerated simian care, and whisper “banana” to the child, who looked on with joy and admiration.
On days when my wife was putting the kid to sleep and was having trouble, she would yell out, “Monkey Daddy,” and I would come barreling into the room like someone auditioning for Bedtime of the Planet of the Apes. It rarely failed to stop the kid from whining, negotiating, or refusing. Who could argue with a giant monkey? It was a physically draining bit, but it brought rest and respite to the house.
Of course, the kid grew up. They’re in high school now, far too old to argue about bedtime or require performance art. Monkey Daddy made fewer and fewer appearances. Banana became just an item on a shopping list, not an entire language of parental affection.
But anyone who has kids will tell you that they are slower to put away their imaginary friends than you might think. I imagine that goes double for kids who have lived through the last several years. COVID stole huge chunks of my baby’s childhood away. They spent their first year of middle school in their bedroom talking to a screen. That’s going to mess up even the healthiest child a little.
So maybe it’s not that surprising that one day last week, after a particularly rough day of adolescence, my baby looked down at me from the top of the stairs and quietly asked, “Monkey Daddy?”
Not going to lie, I almost said no. I’m in my forties now, and the kid is a hundred pounds of sass and magic. There comes a day when all imaginary friends, especially those with old wrestling injuries, need to be put away so that a kid can grow all the way up.
But I decided that today was not that day. So I bounded up the stairs screaming “banana” and hooked the child under one arm. It was effortless, and I carried them kicking and squealing with delight to bed. I tucked them in, turned on their white noise machine, and crept out of the darkened room just like the old days. They whispered, “goodnight Monkey Daddy,” as I closed the door, their voice as small and sweet as the old days.
That night, my back began screaming at me. There was a knot of injured muscle that swelled and ached no matter how I turned. I ate ibuprofen like Skittles, but even then, I could hardly walk the next day. There is no childhood magic strong enough to cover up that level of injury.
I tried to hide it because I didn’t want the kid to feel guilty for my pain. They could see me limping, though, and heard me exhale sharply every time I lifted something heavier than a can of seltzer.
It hurt to watch the kid mentally put Monkey Daddy away for good this time. I could see it in their eyes. They knew that I had wrecked myself so they could have another round with whatever made their childhood safe and comforting. When they next wanted or needed Monkey Daddy, they would push that desire away and pretend they could do without him. That broke my heart.
I liked being Monkey Daddy. Everyone in the family enjoyed him. But he ended because the kid learned what all kids learn about parents who love them. Sometimes, we do what we shouldn’t just to make their world a little brighter and more magical.
This article appears in Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2024.
