My two-year-old drives a black motorcycle with an American flag.
Just like his grandfather.
Desmond parks his bike in his "tree house" -- a wildly huge weed of a shrub that boasts leaves the size of dinner plates.
My kids use the leaves as umbrellas on rainy days and parasols on sunny ones. In fact, we called it the "umbrella tree" until Desmond moved in as a squatter and took possession of it. The tree house has a front and back door and visitors are quite welcome. It also has a garage out back where Desmond keeps his lawnmower.
Most days, he rides his motorcycle to North Carolina while we wait to pick up his sister at the bus stop.
Josephine likes to taunt him: "North Cackalacka. North Cackalacka."
That's my fault. The funny name. Not the taunting.
Josephine also owns a motorcycle. It's pink with a red stripe and polka dot flag.
Not at all like her grandfather's.
She doesn't ride it much. She prefers to pick flowers and dirty mushrooms while we wait.
Yesterday, Desmond informed me that he rode his motorcycle to Africa. I wondered how he got there, given the rather large ocean that separates the two continents. He put the bike on his kayak and sailed there, don't you know.
One of his favorite books these days is "Where the Wild Things Are." I imagine he fancied himself like Max who used a private boat to sail off "through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are."
Like Max, Desmond likes to play with monsters. He pokes at them with a broom or imaginary stick and growls. "I'm going to eat you up." Then he runs away. Looking for his motorcycle, I suppose.