It's mid-morning on a Friday and Daniel and I find ourselves in the coffee shop accross the street from our apartment, doing homework and munching on an enormous salad.
Our concentrated silence is interrupted by the shouts of a small child, and we both look up, concerned, and then smile at each other to see that the child is not hurt or scared, but is looking at his reflection through the glass door to the cafe, shouting, jumping, spinning around, his curly hair bouncing on his roughly four-year-old head.
Our smiles melt away as we watch him lift up his bright yellow shirt and reach into his pants, pulling out a paper towel tube. He grips the tube between both hands and points it at his reflection in the glass door. "Bam, bam, bam!" he shouts, "Bam, bam, bam!"
Clumsily, he lifts up his shirt again, revealing a smooth, round belly, and he fumbles with the tube, pushing it next to his leg, inside his tiny quorderoy trousers.