Three moments with the Bug.

On Friday, the Bug and I were at Pier One Imports picking up tea candles for Diwali. Taking the Bug into a place like Pier One is like smearing yourself with bloody liver and jumping into a pool of starving piranhas; you’re asking for trouble. I fully expected him to knock down a pyramid of wine glasses or at least take out an entire display of Christmas ornaments.

But he was surprisingly calm, and so was I, at least until he said to me, “Look at this cool stuff, Mama!” and – before I could really look – handed me a bag full of DRIED LOTUS SEED PODS.

For a moment, I thought I could hold it together in the face of my worst phobia. After all, the bag was labeled in some deceptive way, like “Potpourri”, not “Hideous Bag O ‘Fucked Up Shit.” And I couldn’t exactly scream and fling it away with the Bug standing there. But then I felt my hands go numb and I literally had a moment of light-headedness.

“Please put that back, honey,” I mumbled. “Mama really doesn’t like things with holes in them.”

I ask you: who in their right mind would pay for, let alone DECORATE with, these things? Do I hang baskets of snakes out on my porch, or leave ornamental tarantulas lying scattered among the dinner plates? Trust me, five years old or not, if the Bug takes up decorating with lotus seed pods, he’s out on his own.

***

Yesterday I took the Bug to JoAnn Fabric to buy the rest of the materials for his Halloween costume, because I’m not the kind of person who waits till the last minute or anything. Unfortunately, the store was filled with a bunch of other shoppers, who were just that kind of person. Assholes.

Anyway, after we got our elastic and single fold binding tape, we went over to the decorating section to look at Halloween and Christmas stuff. I am a complete sucker for Christmas decorations (the shame!), and the Bug is currently fascinated by grotesque Halloween masks. So, after a strong warning not to touch any bags of hole-filled things, I left him browsing the Halloween aisle and went to peruse floating candles shaped like peppermints. When I came back, he was crouched gazing into a tiny tin haunted house adorned with ghosts and bats.

He didn’t say anything when he saw me, knowing my rule about not asking for stuff in stores. But I had a moment of remembering what it was like to be a child and my own fascination with miniature worlds, and how it felt to long for something you had no way to have.

“Do you want that, baby?” I asked. His eyes grew big, and he nodded.

I picked it up and looked at the price tag – $20 – then at a sign saying certain Halloween stuff was 50% off. “Okay, if it’s $10, we can get it. But if it’s not on sale, then it’s too much money.”

He promised to carry it carefully and brought it up to the counter gripping it so tightly his fingers were white. “Can you tell me how much this is?” I asked the cashier.

She scanned it and reported with a smile, “Seven dollars.”

The Bug’s face fell, and he took it off the counter. “I’ll put it back,” he said sadly. “It’s not ten dollars.”

When we got home that afternoon, we put the little house on the dining table and placed a tea candle inside. The Bug set a cup of water next to it, just like they do at pre-school when a candle is burning. Then, his face glowing with anticipation, he waited and waited and waited for it to get dark, so he could finally see what it looked like lit from within.

***
This morning, driving to pre-school, the Bug said to me (as they say, apropos of nothing), “Mama, I really like being a kid.”

“Why?” I asked. Normally the Bug is all about his violated rights as a preschooler, like his right to stay up all night, to eat Cheetos for breakfast, and in general to do Whatever I Feel Like.

“Because I get to love so many things. Animals, dinosaurs, candy corn. I wish I could stay like this forever.”

This was such a small and yet profound statement that I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. I’m the one who’s supposed to wish he could stay like this forever; silly, loving, full of joy at a clear blue sky or a dog’s wagging tail or a little haunted house. How did he have the self-awareness, the comprehension of time passing, the sheer insight to feel the preciousness of his own life as a four-and-three-quarter year old? I didn’t know what to say.

“You know,” I told him finally, “you can always stay a kid in your heart.”

He pondered this statement. “And can I always love panthers?”

“Always,” I told him solemnly.

He grinned. “Okay. Now can we listen to ‘Kung Fu Fighting’?”

And for the million-and-eighth time, we did.