Despite my claims that my family isn’t silent, this blog has thus far been a monologue. And while — stand back — I have so many more thoughts rattling around in my head, I think it’s high time you met another Knudsen.

So, I’d like to introduce my son… by way of his imaginary friend.

My son loves construction. Eats and breathes construction. He’s happiest building or digging on a “work site,” and where it is makes no difference. He doesn’t work alone; he fancies himself a truck, a member of a crew of machines — Caterpillar, mostly — that all have names. And as every truck requires a driver, he has one: Michaels.

The driver phenomenon began some months ago, about the time he began asserting himself. If he disagreed with Mom or Dad, we’d hear about it via his driver. “Mooom, my driver said I have to play in the basement right now.” “My driver doesn’t like squash.” “My driver says it’s okay to play outside when it’s 36 degrees and rainy.” That kind of thing.

Happily, Michaels (who is relatively new on the job) is generally agreeable. He is 11-years-old, which qualifies him as an adult to my nearly 5-year-old. He’s married (to his wife, my son clarifies), and has six children, two of whom are Mike and Savannah, and don’t forget baby Flower, who “has a pretty funny name.”

Since today is Memorial Day, my son informs me that Michaels is staying home with his family. They’ll be going to the park and eating pasta with red sauce for dinner. It’s good to know Michaels has such strong family values.

Hosting a truck driver can be tiresome. And I do wonder what my son’s kindergarten teacher and new friends will think in the fall. But mainly we’ve come to enjoy Michaels’ company, and our son’s view of the world through his eyes.

Not surprisingly, the whole TV-destroys-imagination argument is completely lost on us. Michaels says TV in moderation is okay; who are we to argue?

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