This page will feature mini-entries of the misadventures of Sebastian. I will post them in between my Monday updates.
September 17, 2010: Easy Rider, v.2.5
When there’s one day here and the next day gone 
Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your back to the wind
There’s a world outside every darkened door
Where blues won’t haunt you anymore
Where the brave are free and lovers soar
Come ride with me to the distant shore
- Tom Petty
When Sebastian turned two at the end of March, our friends—an Albanian couple from New York—drove down to celebrate with us. They brought with them a gift that rendered all of us, except my son, speechless. He hid behind my legs; he peeked around the knobs of my knees. His eyes grew from nickels into quarters—and then he shrieked. There was a motorcycle in our living room.
It was a miniature, electric Harley Davidson—made for toddlers, budding Hoppers and Fondas.
For many months, the hogs parked below our apartment had fascinated Sebastian. He would press his nose against the glass in our sunroom or try to squeeze his face through the rails of the balcony to stare longingly at the bikes. He would tap on the window or wave and yell to catch the attention of the riders, in their black leather jackets. But as they were our neighbors—suburbanites—they completed their hell-and-hair-raising looks with polished brown loafers and cuffed slacks.
Sebastian didn’t care about the oddity, though. He loved when they donned their helmets and revved their engines—not once, but three times. Oh, how my son would leap and clap in joy. His hands would rotate imaginary handlebars, and his lips would vibrate against each other to mimic the roar of the bikes.
“Brrrr. Brrrrr. Brrrrrrrrr.” Sebastian would “ride” around the apartment–from room to room; from the kitchen to the bathroom.
In February, during the week we were trapped inside our home by the 50-inch snowfall, Sebastian and his imaginary motorcycle went on road trips.
“Where are you going, Sebi?” I asked him one day.
“I go [to] Buddy’s house. Brrrrr.” His teacher lived only five minutes away.
Another day, Sebastian pretended to go to the supermarket with me. “Come on Mommy. Let’s go.”
So I hopped on behind him—on his dad’s back—and we rode to pick up fake groceries.
When our friends visited six months ago, M & E, made the tyke’s dream come true. While E and Skerdi tinkered with the toy and charge its batteries, Sebastian clapped his hands. According to M, who was five-months pregnant with their first child, it had been a challenge figuring out what 2 year olds liked. They had watched other families at a toy store and looked at what they were picking out for their toddlers—plastic tricycles, footballs, scooters, etc. It didn’t feel right for Sebastian, they said.
When their eyes had locked on the Harley, they knew, she was the right one. But was Sebastian too small for the bike? Would his feet even touch the pedals? They had wondered about fit. E had headed over to a family cooing over a red training bicycle. The youngest son had seemed like he was Sebastian’s age, he had thought.
“Can I borrow your son?” E, unabashed and on a mission, had asked the parents.
The father had moved his little one behind him; his chest puffed out.
E had raised his hands to placate the puffing, heaving smokestack. “My wife and I want to buy a gift for a 2 year old. But, we don’t have kids…yet.”
The other man had exhaled a bit, yielding some air, and raised an eyebrow.
E had continued, “Well, we just don’t know if our friend’s son will fit in that motorcycle. So…well…could we borrow your son? He seems to be the right size as our friends’ child.”
“Um. Ok.”
Followed by the family, E placed their toddler in the bike. The little boy had pressed the pedal, and his eyes had widened along with his grin, as the engine came to life.
“Bravo!” E & M had cried out. “Thank you. Thank you.”
They had wanted to purchase the motorcycle right away. Unfortunately, the toddler had no longer wanted the red training bike. He had wanted to remain inside the Harley.
When E & M described that story, my husband Skerdi and I both smiled. We knew we would never get Sebastian off that motorcycle. But we were wrong. The funny thing about my boy is that although he gets enthusiastic about many things, like the motorcycle, he is fearful about diving in…or in this case driving it.
Sebastian circled the bike. He then stepped in to touch a handlebar and then jumped away as if it had scalded his fingers. He then continued to hover around, occasionally grazing the bike with a toe or an elbow. Patting him on his bum, I encouraged him to get on the motorcycle, “Go ahead little one. Try it.”
Sebastian shook his head.
“Are you scared?”
He nodded.
“Ok, why don’t you come and have some birthday cake that teta M and xhaxhi got for you?”
Cake! Cho-co-late Cake!
He climbed into his high chair . I placed a slice of the cake in front of him. Unlike the motorcycle, the sweet slice of heaven posed no threat. So he dove in—and face planted into the chocolate layers. He gobbled the frosting and filling until he wore a beard of cocoa.
E wondered aloud if Sebastian didn’t like the gift. Skerdi immediately pooh-pooh’ed the suggestion. In rapid Albanian, my husband explained Sebastian’s reluctance as lack of confidence rather than lack of interest.
“It takes him a while to warm up,” I added, in English.
The next day, after M & E had left—probably with more fears of impending parenthood after having witnessed our household chaos—my parents-in-law took Sebastian to the park. They brought the Harley with them. In the wide open space of the basketball court—empty of any pick-up games and parked strollers—Sebastian finally sat on his motorcycle. His grandfather, gjyshi Viktor, bent down to turn the power on at the same time that Sebastian depressed the pedal. Zoom! Sebastian sped ahead, then stopped a few yards away. He turned back to look at his grandparents who hobbled over to him. Instead of a smile, though, he had tears in his eyes. He was trembling. As they neared, he accidentally tapped lightly on the pedal, and the bike lurched forward. Sebastian jumped backwards and howled. Nena Tasha, his grandmother, scooped him up to soothe him, and they walked back to the apartment trailed by my father-in-law and the rejected Harley.
A few days later, Sebastian decided he would give the Harley one more chance—this time, to my chagrin, in the safety and comfort of the apartment. A long black streak along the white wall of my hallway was evidence of his attempts to conquer his fear. Baby steps….inch by inch he drove the bike forward to the front door, where he waited until gjysh turned the bike around so he could head back from where he had started. He drove it towards the other end, the balcony door, through which afternoon light streamed. By dinnertime, he had finished several laps—and turns—on the motorcycle, without apprehension.
While Sebastian rode the highway of my Turkish carpet, he just couldn’t bring himself to return to the wide open spaces of the basketball or, nearer yet, the parking lot. We’ve only had to re-charge the motorcycle once since his birthday. When we bring up the topic of taking the Harley out for some air, he would purse his lips and turn his back on us.
“I, scared, mommy. NO!”
As a parent, it’s important to recognize not just the fear but also the unwillingness to step outside the comfort zone. So we let days pass into months. Spring became summer. And the Harley was parked in the sunroom overlooking its older brother bikes below.
This past July, we spent a week at the Jersey Shore. At the end of our last day at the beach, we walked along the boardwalk, ate hot funnel cakes with powdered sugar, and bought tickets for carnival rides. Because he still did not meet any of the height requirements, I went on most of the dizzying, nauseating rides with Sebastian. Together, we rode the spinning dragon (Sebastian was the only one, of the kids and adults, who emerged smiling); the flying elephants (Sebastian kept telling me to pull on the lever to make the plastic pachyderm rise), and the magic schoolbus (which gave me a mild whiplash).
Sebastian did manage to ride by himself on the speedboat that coursed along in slow motion and the trotting mechanical donkey that after every lap reared its hind legs. Boosted by the wonder of amusement parks, he explored everything and stopped, in shock and awe, in front of the carousel of motorcycles.
Each ride had two sets of handlebars and could accommodate two passengers. Normally the smaller child rode in the back so that he or she could grasp the shorter handles.
“Mommy, I ride this please!” Sebastian pleaded. He just met the height requirement.
“Ok, Sebastian, but you have to hang on tightly!” I took him inside the carousel, and he picked out the bike he wanted to ride. Unfortunately no one wanted to partner with him, and he didn’t want to sit behind anyone. So he took front seat of the empty cobalt blue bike. I strapped him in tightly. He leaned forward and clutched the handles.
“Sebastian, now you hold, ok. You hold real tight.” I reminded him again.
The sound system blasted Tom Petty’s Life is a Highway mashed up against the synthesized din of roaring engines. I stood outside the fence with my husband and parents-in-law. Sebastian passed us once. I screamed for him to hold tight. The bikes passed made another revolution.
This time, as Sebastian passed, he yelled out, “Look at me!”
We waved back at him. In the middle of the next turn, Sebastian let go of his right hand. He waved to all the gasping parents and even to the shocked ride operator.
“Hi everyone,” he yelled. “Look at me. I ride bike!”
Where did all this fearlessness suddenly come from? Perpelexed, Skerdi and I gestured for him to hold on. “You might fall. Hold tight, Sebastian!”
But our attempts were in vain. Sebastian continued to smile and dazzle the crowd. By the next turn, he had lost a little of his balance and had slid slightly to the left of his seat. The operator had slid his hand on top of the red emergency stop button. Just two more turns, I thought. If the ride stopped suddenly, Sebastian would be flung outward or trampled under the wheels of the carousel platform. Please, I prayed, keep him on that beast!
Sebastian slid a little more to the left. He was now riding at an angle to his bike, but he was having fun. He was shouting and waving, while we were all sweating. Even the operator’s red shirt was drenched, betraying his rising panic. When the music finally stopped a few minutes later, so did the ride. I yelled out, “Sebastian, stay right there!”
Skerdi and the operator ran inside quickly, hoping he wouldn’t fall. But Sebastian righted himself up onto his seat. He then unbuckled his belt. His grandparents were shouting in Albanian for him to sit down. Instead, my son, climbed and balanced himself atop his bike and waved one last time to the audience. He was neither Dennis Hopper nor Peter Fonda; with his impish grin, he was Jack Nicholson.
“Awesome!” He cried. “Brrrrr. Brrrrrrr. Brrrrrrrr.”
Skerdi grabbed him into his arms, as the other toddlers—waiting patiently for their parents to release them—followed their exit with stares and wide mouths.
These days, Sebastian is no longer afraid to ride his Harley. At almost 2.5 years, he is older and more confident–especially with respect to his motorcycle. He and Skerdi will often take the bike out for a spin. On their way back home, they stop in front of the motorcycles under our apartment. Sebastian is still enthralled with our neighborhood riders and their black beasts. Like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, they ignite their engines on Sunday mornings, waking many of us up. Sebastian’s eyes fly open, and he grins knowingly. “Motori, mommy, motori!”
The other day, as he and his dad came home from the park, Sebastian spied a giant, banana yellow road monster with three wheels. It was an adult trike. He ran ahead with Skerdi chasing after him. Father and son both stopped in front of the motorized temptress and looked on in awe. Sebastian yanked his arm from his dad’s grip and in a blink had climbed atop the monstrously large motorcycle.
“Sebastian, get down please. That’s not yours.”
“I ride this motori daddy. It’s Sebi’s?”
“No,” Skerdi approached, taking a picture of the motorcycle before snatching his son off. “It belongs to someone else.”
“Ohhhh. Daddy buy motori for Sebi?”
“You have one already. It’s upstairs with mommy.”
“I like this. Yellow.”
“The blue one in the house is much, much better.”
Sebastian hopped down. He assessed the bigger, better motorcycle that was in front of him and that his dad would not buy and thought about the Harley he already possessed, thanks to M & E. “Let go home Daddy.”
September 13, 2010: Fruit of One’s Labors
Last Monday was Labor Day. In the United States, it signified the end of summer. For many students, it marked the beginning of a new school year. Pools and beaches were officially closed. Garden centers traded in the pansies and petunias for pots of chrysanthemums, bags of bulbs, and even pumpkins. Monarch butterflies began their migration of thousands of miles south to Mexico; the stragglers that have been left behind flit about from the last vestiges of summer blossoms.
These butterflies, however, thrive on heat. Lately, temperatures—and the humidity—have dipped. My 29-month old son, Sebastian, and I no longer eat bowls of mango ice cream on the balcony. Instead, at dusk, we watch planes overhead and the shimmering surface of the empty pool across from us while we sit on our slightly chilled hands. Dark has started to settle in earlier and earlier.
Last Friday, before the Labor Day weekend, Sebastian and I were putting away the Duplo blocks we had been using to build a spaceship. It was 9 PM.
“Mommy, where’s Daddy?” Sebastian asked while rubbing his eyes.
“He’s at work,” I reminded him. We stood up, and I scooted him towards the bedroom. My husband works at a second job, waiting tables, on the weekends—to earn extra money to help his family in Albania out and to ease life here at home.
“Oh,” Sebastian said as he climbed into the bed. He wrapped his arms around my head to draw me closer to him. I kissed his button nose. “To make money, mommy?”
“Yup.”
“For Sebi?” He asked as his eyes slowly drifted shut. Fighting sleep, however, he opened them again. “To buy Sebi Cheerios?”
I nodded, relieved. He used to ask his dad to buy him a motori (motorcycle), airplane, and a train. Sebastian realized pretty quickly that things cost money, and that he had to set his sights lower, much lower.
“And milk?”
“Definitely, Sebi.”
“And blueberries? And bread? And shoes?”
“Your dad and I work to make money to buy you things you need.”
“Oh! Good night, mommy.”
I thought about the holiday as Sebastian fell asleep. What is Labor Day? Is it rooted in Ancient Greece—a commemoration of Hercules and his twelve nearly insurmountable feats? Does it celebrate motherhood and birth? Or does it honor the millions of men and women that struggle every day—just like my husband (and me)—to work hard and honestly in order to pay bills, put food on the table and save to later send my son to tennis camp, after school care and a good college?
Actually, Labor Day was established over 125 years ago following the deaths of workers during the infamous Pullman Strike, in which labor unions fought over railroads.
Since then, Labor Day weekend—around the first Monday of September—is about relaxing and reflecting. It is about picnics, barbeques and shopping. The holiday weekend meant ubiquitous sales—from malls to outlets. I used to wonder how much items actually cost to manufacture, if a store can afford to give the customer an extra 10% off on the rack that has already been reduced by 50% off. Many don’t ponder this offer; they take advantage. Sadly, I had nothing to purchase. I felt I had an obligation to buy something, though, as I stared at several coupons last Friday night.
After Sebastian had gone to sleep, I waited for my husband Skerdi to come home from work at around midnight. I leafed through fashion magazines hoping for inspiration. Maybe I could buy pieces for a new fall wardrobe, I thought. But, admittedly, I was reluctant to let summer go.
The next day, Skerdi woke up eager to go shopping. He crammed several Macy’s coupons in his pocket and a booklet of discounts from other stores in my purse. We headed to the mall.
At Macy’s, we split up. He headed to the lower level—the men’s department—while I ambled about the aisles with Sebastian in his stroller. I spritzed on some new colognes and on Sebastian’s wrist, which he held out. We looked at some suits; I felt like a stuffed turkey looking at the blazer and skirt ensemble. I held some peasant blouses and cropped jackets in front of me and critiqued my reflection. What a waste of money, I thought.
So Sebastian and I headed to the children’s department. I wanted to buy him a water-repellent windbreaker. We charged over to the rear section of the second level and in between racks and racks of sweaters and bulky winter coats.
“Mommy! Mommy!” Sebastian pointed to a nearby stand of shirts. “Look! Spiderman!”
We went near the orange shirt with Spiderman and other Marvel superheroes silkscreened on its front. Sebastian was clapping his hands and shrieking.
“Mommy! I hold it, please.”
I handed him the hanger, and he clasped the shirt to his chest.
“Mommy, buy shirt please.”
I kneeled on the floor and said, “Sebastian, if it costs a lot of money, then we cannot buy it, ok?”
“Why, mommy, why?”
“Because Mommy and Daddy work hard to buy you things you need. And this may be too much money.”
Sebastian’s shoulders sank. “Ok. But I hold please.”
We continued to walk around the children’s department looking for the elusive windbreaker. Sebastian remained silent, clutching the shirt. I rolled my eyes. It was going to be tough to part the boy from Spiderman. I glanced down at the price tag–$8.95, not bad. I fished through my purse for my cell phone to warn Skerdi to save one of the coupons for us. Suddenly, Sebastian bounced violently in his stroller’s seat.
“Mommy, mommy, look!” He pointed to a green shirt. “Look, mommy, it’s Batman!”
“Oh I know! Cool!”
“I hold it, mommy, please?” He blinked his eyes rapidly.
“Ok, I can let you see it.”
“You buy mommy?”
“Well, we’ll probably have to ask Daddy, ok, if he has money to pay for this.” I quickly sent my husband a text message to let him know we were heading his way. “Why don’t we go look for him?”
“Ok, let’s go!”
We took the two shirts, still on their hangers, and headed towards the elevator. Inside, Sebastian looked expectantly at the numbers on the console indicating what floor we were passing. When we reached the lower level, the doors opened wide.
Sebastian suddenly screamed out, “DADDY, I NEED MONEY!”
Skerdi, who was on the other side of the floor, heard his son’s bellow. He sauntered over to his demanding son and red-faced wife.
“Sebastian,” he said, while crouched beside the little one, “what do you need?”
“I need money, Daddy. Please.”
“Why?”
“Buy shirts. Shirts have Spiderman and Batman.”
“Oh, hmmm, wow! These are nice.” Skerdi made a show of inspecting the two items. “But, let’s see how much money they cost.”
With the coupons and extra discounts, the two shirts were cheap. Skerdi ruffled his son’s hair and said, “Sebastian, these are $7 each. We will buy this for you, ok? But you take care of the shirts.”
Sebastian clapped his hands. “Yea. Thank you. Good job daddy. Daddy work; make money for Sebi!”
Skerdi and I stared at each other and shook our heads. We both wondered if our aim to get him to understand the importance of money and hard work was all in vain, or was he just too young to understand. We just have to keep at it for the next 18 years.
EPILOGUE:
Today, Sebastian and I went grocery shopping. He ran to the closet and picked out his Spiderman shirt.
“Mommy, I wear this please.”
I nodded. He paired the top with his gray shorts and his new shoes that light up as he walks. On our way down to the car, we passed several neighbors. He would say hi and show off his shirt.
“Look at me! Look at me! Spiderman!”
Everyone we passed smiled at his enthusiasm. We skipped, hand in hand, over to the car. He climbed into his car seat. As I was strapping him in, Sebastian leaned forward to kiss me.
“Mommy?”
“Yes Sebi?”
“Thank you for money for shirt.”
Maybe it won’t take 18 years after all.
September 3, 2010: The Play Yard
Nobody wanted to play with Sebastian. At the play yard, a few days ago, my 29-month-old son approached several children and introduced himself.
“Hi,” he said, “I’m Sebi.”
He leaned in to kiss and hug the little girl in the pink and green dress, but she pulled back, screamed and ran away. So, he went over to the four-year-old boy with the skinned knees and tried to go down the slide with him, but the latter nudged him and slid down to join other kids his age by the igloo replica. Unfazed by the rejection, Sebastian smiled, ran over to me to touch my hand—as a way, I think, to re-anchor himself—and then went off to the miniature, stationary school bus. He hopped on board and pretended to pick up students at stops in the neighborhood.
“Come here! Come here!” He yelled, but no one came. So he sang, stiltedly, “Wheels…bus…go round, round. Round and round.”
A baby, in light blue overalls, was practicing to walk. His mother followed behind him. He looked up at Sebastian in the bus.
“Hello!,” my son said, “[Come] up. Sebi drive.”
The little boy looked at his mother before clambering up. Sebastian leaned over and squeezed the chubby baby with his skinny arms.
“Sebastian,” I called out, “Just shake hands, please.”
“Ok, Mommy!” Sebastian raised both his arms and then…shook his own hands in the air. “See, Mommy, see, I shake. I shake.”
Eventually, the mother directed the baby back towards the stroller. Another toddler approached the bus and tried to replace Sebastian as the driver.
My son yelled out, “Noooo, don’t do that!” He then pushed the child to the edge of the slide, located at the back of the bus. “Go away!”
I hurried to the potential disaster area. Firmly, I said, “Sebastian, no pushing.”
Silence.
“Did you hear me, I said no pushing, ok?” I had been worried for weeks about his tendencies to hit and push when he became frustrated.
Contrite, Sebastian looked down, shuffled his feet and then launched himself into my arms, “Yes, mommy.”
I ruffled his hair and fixed his collar. “Ok, baby, you go play now.”
“Mommy? We play hide [and] seek.”
I was still Sebastian’s favorite playmate. At home, we tumble and rumble. I am the horse to his cowboy. I am mommy robot to his little Wall-E. I am Dora, and he’s Boots the Monkey. When I yield play time to work, he screams for me to “Close the Put-eh.” Oh no, I thought as he repeated the phrase “Close the Put-eh” again. But he hadn’t learned a new bad word in Spanish, he just wanted me to turn off my laptop and play ball with him.
At the play yard, Sebastian will run around me. He will venture in a new direction and then find his way to me before radiating out to a different area. He is my little Io, my orbiting moon.
“Ok, Sebastian let’s play. You run and hide, ok?” I covered my eyes and started to count. “One…three…five…”
Pitter, patter, shuffle, shuffle, giggle, muffled giggle, silence.
“…nine…ten. Ready or not, here I come!”
Where was my moon, I wondered. Not far away–I only had to turn around. He had been hiding behind me.
Satisfied with our little game, Sebastian ran back to the bus. A group of squealing and laughing kids entered the play yard. It was a group of local day care students and their teachers. A tall woman with a crane like neck and freckles had a baby carrier strapped to her. Inside the front pouch slept a newborn. Clustered around the teacher were three children—with special needs. Two little girls–one in pigtails, the other with braids in her hair–stayed by her. However, the boy, around Sebastian’s age, toddled forward to the nearest play yard toy: the school bus.
The boy, who I will call E, had thin, spiky hair and long curling lashes. He wore a gray t-shirt with a orange brontosaurus printed on the front and blue shorts with orange stripes. E mounted the steps of the school bus and stood at its helm.
Sebastian, who had been poised at the top of the slide portion, turned around. I slowly approached the two kids. It’s always hard to gauge how children will react to differences.
“Hi!” My son waved and said, “I, Sebi.”
E did not greet him back. Instead, he gawked at Sebastian and inched away when the latter neared him. Sebastian stood in front of him and grabbed the other boy’s hands.
E was born with physical impairments. Instead of a hand, 1-inch long fingers protruded from the wrist joint of his left arm, while his right hand was bent at a 90 degree angle away from his forearm.
Smiling, Sebastian raised their hands together in the air. E did not pull away, but he remained quiet. The two of them stared into each other’s eyes.
“Sebastian, just shake hands, please,” I pleaded. Admittedly, I was nervous about what would transpire next.
“No, Mommy,” He said, without glancing away from the other child. Before I could wrest him away from bus–to avoid any awkwardness, Sebastian bent over and kissed E’s two hands. Then, he kissed them once more.
My eyes closed gently as tears escaped. When I opened them again–through the watery haze–I watched Sebastian pull E into a fierce hug. When he let go, he said to the other boy, “We play, ok.”
Without waiting for a response, Sebastian motioned E to follow him to the slide area.
“Come on,” he yanked on E’s dinosaur shirt. “Go down slide.”
The little boy remained immobile at the steering wheel of the bus.
Sebastian cocked his head to the left. “No scary. I show you.” Then, he slid down the incline.
I inched closer to E–to see if he needed help. But he didn’t. A smile broke out on E’s face. He, too, sat down and then scooted forward until momentum brought him down the slide as well.
Sebastian laughed and then hugged his friend. “You did it. Good job!”
E grinned and hugged my son back.
Sebastian asked his new friend, “You happy?”
E nodded.
Sebi danced and jumped in glee. He showed E his robot dance and his tiger roar. “I happy too.”
August 27, 2010: Cleanliness is next to Elmo.
A few months before Sebastian turned 2, he started singing the widely known “Clean up” song while putting his toys away before bedtime. He even flipped over his remote-controlled fire truck and slid the switch to off. His dad, grandparents and I looked at each other in surprise. I’m sure, we each silently thanked Buddy and her staff at the daycare for instilling good habits in him so early. But was it the school, or was Sebastian showing early signs of a lifelong cleaning compulsion? Or was it nature? After all his two uncles–my younger brothers–take 2 to 3 showers a day, and his grandmothers are both notorious neat freaks. Or was it Elmo?
In March, we threw him a birthday party – just family and a few close friends. After blowing out his candles, his uncle and aunt handed him his first gift.
“Tear it open! Tear it open!” We all chanted with uncontained joy.
Sebastian looked down at the gift and loosened the wrapper and then slowly ripped the paper.
“Elmo!!” Everyone yelled in delight at the Tickle-Me-Elmo doll. It was a perfect gift, as he has just started the Elmo phase. But instead of wresting the red popular puppet from his cardboard prison, he left the box at his uncle’s feet. Sebastian gave Elmo a sideways glance and then looked down at the wrapping paper. His head turned to look at the gift again; he shook his head.
“C’mon, Sebi! Play with Elmo,” my brother urged.
Instead, Sebastian walked over to the discarded wrapping paper and collected the smaller torn pieces of paper and placed those into larger ones.
“Sebbbbbiii,” his grandmother called out and said in her native language, Albanian, “go play with the toy. And say thank you.”
But Sebastian would not be deterred from his mission. He continued to nest the pieces into each other and then folded the entire pile together. He placed the bundle off to the side. He looked up and smiled at his uncle.
“Now I play with Elmo,” Sebastian announced.
It has been several months since there have been any other hygiene hijinks or evidence of his tendencies to clean. Occasionally, though, he would take his plastic lawn mower and pretend to vacuum the carpet or take the broom to sweep away traces of soil from under the pots on the balcony. But the other day, Sebastian surprised me.
I’m a mother of 28-month old boy. This means I get very little sleep, and I wake up earlier than the rest of the snoring household. Sebastian is my little satellite—a gravitational force keeps him in my orbit. If I sit on the sofa, he moves from the sunroom to sit beside me in the living room. If I head to the kitchen to start dinner, he climbs up the stool to watch me from the bar.
The other day, at 5am, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom across the hall, when Sebastian walked in, whining and rubbing his eyes.
“Mommy, go back [to] sleep,” he ordered.
“It’s ok, Sebastian,” I said. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll be there soon.”
“No, Mommy, I stay with you.”
I looked down at him waiting in the doorway. Half-asleep, he leaned against the frame. “Sebastian, why don’t you sit down on your chair?” I pointed to his red, step stool decorated with Elmo’s face around the edges.
“Ok,” he said. He walked behind me to his chair on the left. He squatted on the floor and stared at the seat. Then he stood up. “No, mommy, it dirty.”
I looked down. I saw nothing. “Sebastian, it’s clean. You can sit down.”
“I said [it’s] dirty.” Sebastian yanked open the opposing drawer and pulled out a pocket-sized bottle of antibacterial spray. He squatted back to the floor and squirted out some of the hand cleanser onto the Elmo chair. Sebastian stood back up, tore off a ply of toilet paper and wiped the spot he had just sprayed. Back and forth, back and forth, around and around—my son rubbed the spot over and over. Satisfied, he stood up and dropped the toilet paper into the trash.
“Mommy,” he yanked on my nightshirt.
I looked down at his smiling face. “Yes, Sebastian?”
“Elmo clean. Now I sit.”
August 20, 2010: The Horn of Africa
- Pan and the Magic Horn?
My friend Jason just arrived back from Cameroon, where he spent several months working on various projects there and in nearby countries. He was lucky enough to be in the continent when the World Cup happened this summer in South Africa. Yesterday, Jason brought me back a gift—a vuvuzela.
This past World Cup will be remembered for three things: a) Spain won for the first time; b) referee calls were controversial, and infuriating, and c) the vuvuzelas drove millions mad. Inspired by the shape of the kudu antlers, the horn is the symbol of South African football. When thousands are blown, it sounds like a swarm of killer bees buzzing around an amplifier. During the Cup, viewers found it difficult to hear the commentators. Many found the horn distracting; while others—including my husband—just hated it. In fact, many stadiums around the world are banning these noisemakers.
I, for one, was excited to go home and hang up the vuvuzela, which had South Africa written down its length. A coveted souvenir.
Sebastian pointed to the horn, “Mommy, what that?”
“It’s a horn, sweetheart.”
“Ohhhh.”
He looked at the horn, and pointed again, “Volcano, mommy?”
“No, it’s a horn.” I then puckered my lips and fit the instrument around my mouth. Then I blew. Sebastian jumped back from the explosion of sound. I blew again. Sebastian’s eyes widened.
“Wowwww.” On tiptoes, he raised his hands to reach the vuvuzela. “I have it mommy. I have volcano. Please.”
“It’s a horn.” I handed him the instrument.
“Thanks mommy. Sebi like volcano.”
“Horn.”
“Noooo, volcano.” He brought the instrument, 2 ft. in length, up to his lips and then blew. His sound was even more forceful than mine. “Mommy, I like volcano.”
“I’m glad. But, honey, it’s a horn.”
“Volcano.”
I sighed, “Horn.”
He insisted, then forced out another bellow. “No. It’s a volcano, ok?”
Weary, I conceded. “Fine, volcano.”
Early this morning, Sebastian shoved at me. I groaned, opened my eyes and fell back asleep. A few minutes later, a deep groaning buzz burst into my right ear. I sat up and turned on the lamp.
Sebastian had been holding his vuvuzela. He was grinning.
“Look, mommy,” he raised his instrument up in the air, “it’s Sebi horn-y!”
“No, pumpkin, it’s a horn.”
“Yay, horny!” He blew into the vuvuzela again.
Panicked at the thought that he may ask his teacher if he could bring his horn[y] to day care, I quickly added, “Actually, Sebastian, it’s a volcano.”
“Ok! Yay, volcano!” He ran out of the room, tooting his horn.
August 13, 2010: Sebastian, Still Wet Behind the Ears?
Sebastian—my 28-month old son—loves his tiger pajamas. When he wears it, he runs around the house roaring and clawing the air. My little cub hides behind armchairs and under barstools, where he waits for unsuspecting prey and then jumps out with fingers unfurled. Sometimes, he will follow in stealth. He never thinks you can hear the little dots of giggles that escape through his fingers.
“Rawr! Mommy, I scare you!”
The other night, after his bath, he asked to wear his orange pajama shorts, with brown tiger stripes, and white short-sleeved top with a tiger’s head in the middle of the chest. It was storytime, so he ran to the living room.
“Mommy, where Daddy?” Sebastian asked as he reclined on the leather couch. Sebastian grabbed his ankles, bringing his feet to his chin, and rocked backwards.
I sat beside him—a book on my lap—and replied, “In the shower.”
“Ohhhh,” he said. He stopped rocking, and then popped up. “Mommy, I want mi-mi.”
“Really?” He normally doesn’t ask for milk right before bedtime.
“Please, mommy, I want mi-mi.”
“Ok, but you stay right here.” I pointed to the couch and fixed Sebastian with a tiger-fierce stare. He nodded.
I marched to the kitchen, poured milk into his sippy cup, and then headed back to the living room. The couch was empty.
“Sebastian? SE-bastian. SEBASTIAN!”
Silence.
I checked behind the usual places, where a tiny tiger could hide, and the more obvious areas like our den, where his toys are kept in blue mesh bins. Sebastian was missing.
After a few minutes of searching for him, a loud yelled erupted, “What the F__K!?”
I ran to the bathroom and flung the door open. A mango-scented cloud rolled past me. Behind the glass doors of the shower, stood my husband, wearing a helmet of sudsy shampoo and a mask of lathered soap. Water dripped down his shoulders and back. He was looking down at my son.
Sebastian the tiger had been replaced by the Cheshire cat. With a wide, impish grin, he said, “Hi daddy! Finished?”
“What happened?” I asked Skerdi and pulled my son out of the tub. His freshly laundered pajamas were soaked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him come in. When I started washing my face and hair, I suddenly felt something down the back of my legs. I thought it was a cockroach! I twisted around and saw his little finger scratching me.”
In my arms, Sebastian twisted to escape my grip. I toweled his hair and said, “Let’s go change, then you can have your mi-mi.”
“No mommy, I don’t want mi-mi.”
“But you asked for it.”
“Nooooo. No mi-mi,” he emphasized. And suddenly, his earlier ploy to get me out of the room dawned on me.
“You are wily, my boy!”
“I tiger, mommy. Rawr!”
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