Life with a 3 year old

 In honor of my host brother's upcoming birthday, I'd like to dedicate a post just for him. This is for you, Moulay Idriss...

Moulay playing with (aka harassing) 4 live chickens in our house - just another day in paradise!

Disclaimer: I would like to apologize in advance to Mama Siham and her crew for revealing some of the inner workings of her family. But, I see the world only through the lenses I wear, and I’m currently wearing “Moroccan daughter/sister/guest” in their home, so have no other way to frame my view of the world.

I have no brothers, so I’m sure some of my surprise at the way Moulay is raised is due purely to lack of experience.  Furthermore, I don’t have much experience with kids, and what I do have has only been for the past 9 months (and counting) with my favorite kid in the world: my nephew Kieran – who is, of course, a complete and total angel. Either way – let me just say a few things about my little ‘brother’ here in the Maghreb. Disclaimer #2: if my observations of Moulay seem similar to a scientist’s of an animal, please refer to my earlier stated lack of familiarity with this breed.

1. He is absurdly spoiled, and he absolutely rules the roost in this house. He is allowed to do anything he wants, as long as it makes him happy. This includes hitting his sisters, throwing food at anyone he pleases, yelling at the top of his lungs until he gets attention, hitting his grandmother, taking people’s cell phones out of their hands mid conversation, climbing up the wall to hang off of the window bars, eating other people’s food – even straight out of their hands, hitting his mama and baba, throwing umbrellas out the window from our 3^rd floor living room, hitting guests – like me, ripping up books, breaking anything and everything, throwing tantrums at least 4 times per hour; and, my favorite, giving me something and then immediately screaming at his mom and pointing at me, “the thief”. I’m well aware that I’m being taken advantage of by a child 1/9 my age, but that kid has some strong vocal cords!

2. He loves dangerous toys.

In the short time I have been here, I’ve seen him “play” with the following items, which all seem to be endorsed, if not ignored, by his adults:

-       an umbrella. He particularly enjoys running full speed with it pointing straight ahead to ward off any offenders, a la Medieval jousting. This behavior is typically followed with a ceremonial breaking of the umbrella, which includes removing and smashing the curved handle, pulling the many metal “spokes” off one by one, and tearing apart the water resistant cloth. He is careful not to waste any of the parts, and once broken, uses each and every one of them to torture his relatives whether by using them to hit, poke or throw.

-       A knife. On more than one occasion. This usually starts with him watching Habiba hack off hunks of meat from a sheep leg on the dining table, and getting jealous of her knife. No one protests too much when he takes the knife from her, lest they get stabbed. He doesn’t seem to have discovered the knife’s use as a weapon against others just yet, but I’m quite worried about his own safety with this one. He waves it around, acting as though it was a wand and wooshing it dangerously close to his stubborn brown eyes. When he’s done with it, he’ll throw it in any direction he pleases, which is almost always within centimeters of someone’s foot.

-       Scissors. Again, he takes them by force and threat of screaming from their rightful owner. He loves to snatch them open and shut, as if imitating a barber. “Who cuts you up, guurrllll?”

-       A lighter. And of course, the bigger the better, so he sets the flame to high and flicks it in the face of any observer. I’ve learned not to get worried until I smell skin or hair burning. Note to self: learn to say the word ‘fire’ in Arabic.

-       Nail polish. This may not necessarily be the worst thing: any kid deserves to mess around decorating themselves, as long as it’s not permanent, right? BUT, after painting his nails in the fashion so well demonstrated by his three sisters, the brush of the nail polish seems to always somehow find it’s way into Moulay’s mouth. Poison control, anyone?

-       Cigarettes. Given to him by his Uncle Hassan, his mother insists he doesn’t know what they are (and therefore how bad they are, especially for toddlers). Partaking in the game, Siham pretends cigarettes are henna pens, asking Moulay to draw on her hands and feet with them. It’s all fun and games until the butt is ripped off and the contents are being sprinkled into Moulay’s mouth.

-     Glass. My host grandpa, Abdulatif, takes daily medication that is dispensed in small glass capsules. In order to access the healing liquid, you simply pop off one end of the capsule, pour it into a glass with water and drink. Dangerous, for sure, but fascinating to watch. Moulay, of course, wants anything anyone else has, so naturally he gets a hold of grandpa's medicine from time to time. He taps the capsule on the table until he gets frustrating at it's not breaking, and finally Siham pops off one end for him. Unfortunately, she doesn't watch closely as to where the small glass tip lands. I have seen it land INSIDE the glass on more than one occasion, so it's highly likely Moulay has ingested glass at least once. Upon pointing this out to Siham, she arches her eyebrows and waves me away. Could my language barrier be a health concern to this growing boy?  

-     Chickens. Siham purchased the special chickens (i.e. colored, not white) especially to make pastilla for Moulay's birthday, a flakey pigeon or chicken tart specific to the Fes region. Therefore, Moulay felt entitled to use them as his personal play things while they were still alive. Chickens purchased in the covered meat souk in the medina up the street from my house are sold with their wings clipped and feet bound together so they can't get too far. It didn't take long for Moulay to figure this out. I came home to him holding the bound feet of the poor animals, running and screaming with his prize held high. I'll admit I had a hard time looking into the eyes of these birds as Moulay swung them around and tossed them on the floor. He was very proud of his newfound toy, much like a dog with a bone, and plucked several feathers for me to show his pride. Thanks, Moulay, for the souvenirs.  

3. He is the king of the castle. Even despite his neverending fits of rage and violence, he constantly receives accolades for his behavior. In fact, he is occasionally kissed, hugged and fussed over, seemingly as a direct result of his antics. I have even been asked to kiss him on the cheek or hands at these times, a lead that I follow, of course. I have only seen him receive punishment twice, whereas his sisters get in trouble at least daily. 

And yet...hard not to love him

4. He is cute. I’ll admit, the first day I moved in and met Moulay, umbrella in his hand and mischievous grin on his face, I nearly turned around and walked out, comforting myself only in the fact that he is still too small and uncoordinated to open the door to my room. I still find myself seeking solace from him, but I find myself more amused by him than annoyed, which is much more than I could say 2 weeks ago. Though he seems even more the patriarchal young ruler than any other Moroccan family I’ve witnessed, I am at least starting to understand the reason behind giving him whatever he wants whenever he wants it: if you don’t, he’ll scream. And I assure you, nothing in the world is more grinding on one’s sanity.