Mrs. McGovern's Imaginary Child

When I was in first grade, I had a fantastic teacher named Mrs. McGovern.

She was enthusiastic, caring, warm, and an overall great person.

But that was not what I remembered about Mrs. McGovern, not really.

No, if you had Mrs. McGovern, what you remember is Stanny.

Mrs. McGovern's imaginary son.

In the interest of full disclosure, and the disinterest in good storytelling, I will tell you that Stanny was made up.  Not only was he made up, but his non-existence was perpetuated by Mrs. McGovern on an almost-daily basis.

Then again, I guess when you have an imaginary son you have to really invest in his non-being.

Mrs. McGovern would tell story after story about Stanny.  Though he was only two-years-old, Stanny seemed to have already had a lifetime of adventures.

I remember stories about Stanny eating spoons, crawling out of his playpen and into a neighbor's yard, and nearly falling into the monkey cage at the zoo.

Stanny was a rugrat before there were Rugrats.

My classmates and I loved hearing Stanny stories.  Mrs. McGovern would use them as treats when we were well-behaved or when she wanted to get us in a good mood before she gave us a spelling test.

For years, when I thought of Mrs. McGovern, I would think of Stanny.

Then, a few weeks ago, I ran into her in the supermarket.  She hadn't changed hardly at all, and I was thrilled to see her.  In my head, I did some math, and realized Stanny would be twenty-two now.

Imagine that!  What sort of kid had Stanny grown up to be?

When I introduced myself, Mrs. McGovern smiled and said--

"You always wrote with a slant, and you told the best knock knock jokes."

I couldn't believe she remembered me, and specifics at that.  I didn't hesitate in asking about her son.

"My son," she said, looking puzzled.  It took a second, and then her face lit up, and she laughed.

I was confused.

"I didn't have a son," she said.

I felt like every movie character at the moment of the twist.

The guy from The Crying Game.
The guy from The Usual Suspects.
Bruce Willis.

"I had a photo on my desk of my nephew Travis," she continued, "And one of you asked to hear a story about my son.  I realized you thought that was him, and I noticed that all of you had been talking and making a lot of noise until you heard the question.  I didn't really have any stories about Travis, since he lived in California with my sister, and I realized if I told you a story about my 'son' then maybe you'd stay quiet for a little while."

I couldn't believe it.  Stanny was a sham.

It felt like finding out about Santa and the Easter Bunny all over again.

I said a polite good-bye to Mrs. McGovern, and made my way down the frozen food aisle.  As soon as I was turned away from her, I felt a rage bubble up inside me.  How could she lie to children like that and then laugh about it as if it were nothing?

Part of me felt stupid for feeling like Mrs. McGovern needed to be ashamed of herself.  Was this woman--this woman who remembered my love of knock knock jokes--really a bad teacher just because she came up with an ingenious way to keep her students in check?

And don't all adults lie to children?  What about Santa and the Easter Bunny?  Hadn't my mother and father lied to me more than Mrs. McGovern had by perpetuating my standard childhood fantasies?

Even with all that logic, I still felt disappointed.

I accepted that Mrs. McGovern wasn't a bad person, but she certainly didn't seem as fun without the memories of Stanny.

In my head, I saw him as being a lot like me.  Still adventurous.  Still causing trouble.  Still the apple of his mother's eye.

Maybe that's why it was such a letdown to hear he wasn't real.

Perhaps "Stanny" was the last of my childhood myths that hadn't yet faded away with time.