Sometimes I wonder what fuels a child’s imagination, regarding the way they view adults. It’s like they construct characters from equal parts observation, interaction, and imagination.

My six-year-old niece (S.M.) has an interesting interpretation of me. I say interesting because it’s more romantic than accurate, capturing an element of heroism that is beyond my reach. I know others see us differently from the way we see ourselves, but to see your reflection from the point of view of a six year old is both humorous and daunting.

S.M. is the youngest of the nieces and nephews, and as a result of both my marriage and happenstance, I have spent less time around her than I have the others. Her memories of me are a combination of legend, brief interactions, and her brother’s memories. Her version has all the makings of a brilliant children’s book, but it creates a tall pedestal from which I will eventually tumble.

One of the most laughable traits she has attributed to me is being a girly-girl. I’m not throwing stones at feminine women, or men for that matter, but anyone who knows me, rolls their eyes about this. I’m more qualified to cut crown molding than to apply make up. My idea of dress casual is selecting a t-shirt without an expletive printed on it. Fingernails are to be neatly trimmed lest they become a hazardous. And high heels? I can’t walk in them; end of story.

At some point, S.M. made up her mind, that I was a girly girl, and we need to have a girls’ weekend. During girls’ weekend, we will take turns doing each other’s make-up and hair, watch movies, clean out her mother’s fishpond, and drink coffee in the jacuzzi. WTF? It gets better. She refers to me as “Barbie Aunt Chica”. There is no resemblance. Barbie is tall, big busted, blond, and capable of accessorizing. I am none of those things, but I can change a flat tire for her, because we all KNOW Ken is such a wuss. . I am to Barbie what Janeane Garofalo was to Uma Thurman, yet the legend lives.

I had the honor of chauffeuring S. M. to dinner this week. Like me, she has an active imagination, like her mother, she has the ability to talk for half an hour without pausing for breath. We only drove for ten minutes, but it felt like I absorbed a week’s worth of conversation. (Yeah, my life really is that quiet). We She talked about cars, her grandma, her brother, her cat, her old “lost” cat, and a whole host of “why” questions. All I had to do was drive, listen and arrive alive.

There are times when I wonder, am I better person in real life or in S.M.’s imagination? So far I’m not diabolical in either setting, which is something of a relief. I remember little about being her age. From the stories my family tells, I was outspoken and had an active imagination, so little has changed.

I remember the girl crushes at her age, and older. I remember being absolutely infatuated with women. Not sensually, but emotionally. In youth, there was something about the way some women, would just listen without judging you. They offered guidance, but not the over-bearing I’m gonna yank a knot in your ass kind of way (unless, of course, you really needed it). Most of all, I remember the strength these women were generous to share with me. I may never feel like a grown up, but hopefully I’ll still pass something useful to those younger than me, or, at the least, continue the art of listening.