Last week Meemo came to live with us. I don’t actually know if that’s how you spell his name, but since Meemo is P.’s imaginary friend, and P. cannot spell, I’m making an educated guess.

Meemo is, and I quote, “A very tiny tiger. He wears tiny tiger pants.”

And he is. Tiny, that is. Meemo fits snugly into an almost-three-year-old’s palm. Some other information you may find useful (as close to verbatim as I can get; I have edited some of the toddler-speak into actual English):

Meemo is a baby, so he’s still afraid of the potty.

Meemo is a good swimmer, so he likes to take baths. But since he’s a baby, we have to help him with the soap and make sure he is completely rinsed off.

Meemo has his own pajamies (aka, pajamas) that he got for Christmas. They have Christmas stuff on them, but it’s okay to keep wearing them after Christmas.

Meemo travels. Often. On airplanes. Where does he go? To the airport.

P: Meemo is on da airplane, and I miss him. I miss him sooooo much.

Me: Is Meemo coming back?

P: Sure.

Me: When?

P: I just need to call him.

Me: Okay, would you like me to get the phone?

P: (incredulous) I don’t need da pone! I just call him. [cups hands around mouth] MEEMO!!

Me: Ahhh. You just need to call him.

P: Yeppy. And he come back! Hi, Meemo. I missed you!

We’re all entertained by our imaginary tiger, although admittedly I think P. and I are the most entertained. One member of the family, though, seems to be struggling with some proprietary issues. H., who has dallied in the imaginary himself, says he thinks Meemo is funny, but it’s complicated.

At age six (as of tomorrow – don’t get me started, I’ll be weeping), H. has outgrown his imaginary friends. Yes, friends. Multiple. Because he’s getting older, I’ll respect his privacy a bit and won’t go into much detail. Let’s just say this: his friends were a team of sorts, a large grouping, of mythical creatures. And they were crime fighters, keeping our entire neighborhood safe.

Every once in a while he still brings them up, but if I play along he gets very serious. “You do know they’re imaginary, right Mom? I’m just playing. They’re not real.” And I see the concern pass over his features. How is this woman going to shepherd me through life? She has no grasp on reality.

And he’s not entirely wrong, but so far we’ve all done okay. Mostly.

So H.’s imaginary buddies have left the building, and now P. – and Meemo – own that real estate. Big brother clearly wants in on the action. And as only big brothers can do, H. wants to control the entire situation. He doesn’t just want to share in the experience; he wants to star in it.

We were all – including Meemo – out running errands and grabbing dinner the other day. The tiny tiger was being difficult, jumping in and out of the car (while we were rolling), sitting on Mark’s head, and causing general mayhem in the back seat. For a few minutes, all was fine. Until I heard this:

H: Oh, look! Meemo is in my hand. What’s that Meemo? You want to be my friend?

P: No! Meemo is mine! Not yours.

H: I know he’s not mine. But we’re still friends. He wants to sit with me a little while.

P: He do not want to sit with you. He do not! Meemo is in my seat!

(Volume is escalating in the back seat, and I wish for one of those limousine dividers. I reach into my own imagination, where I picture pushing a button and making the noise stop.)

Me: H., return the tiger to your brother. I’m sure P. is happy to let you play with Meemo, but you have to ask first.

H: But I’m just trying to have fun and make everyone laugh like P. and Meemo are.

Ahh, I think. I understand.

I’m going to spare you here, and not recount the next ten minutes, but there was more bossing by H., more whining by P., more imaginary sound barriers being raised by me, and poor Meemo actually rode on the roof for a little while to escape it all. But I kept my mouth shut until we got home, out of respect for H. It was clear that he was struggling with his place: not the baby, but not a big kid, either.

When we got home, I took H. aside and explained that Meemo lives inside his brother’s head. We cannot, and should not, control that situation. We are not the bosses of imagination. That territory is owned, wholly and completely, by each individual. As it should be.

But I understood where H. was coming from. His brother and Meemo were getting attention – and laughs. Who doesn’t like to get a few laughs? From H.’s big, six-year-old view, he was getting one-upped in the cuteness department, and that broke my heart a little. Mark and I, of course, think H. is cute, and funny, and all manner of other good things. He, however, is torn between wanting attention and not being able to differentiate being laughed with and laughed at. It’s a tough stage.

So we’re walking gently through this stage. I’m aware that H.’s needs are changing, and have been trying (although not always successfully) to recognize him in ways that work for him.

Meanwhile, H. has affected an eye roll and exchanges a knowing look with the adults when Meemo is around. That crazy kid and his imaginary tiger! Isn’t it just precious? Now H. is in on the joke with the adults, and Meemo is no longer caught in bizarre custody battle between brothers.

I wonder…

:: Do your kids have imaginary friends?

:: Have you seen examples of growing pains like H.’s, when your child is too big to be little, but too little to be big?