Bill the Seal is part harbor seal, part leopard seal — and part ghost. He is listed among the world's chonkiest seals and is a champion in the sport of chonky-seal nose-boxing. He subsists on pumpkin spice lattes and sausages. On occasion, his body is taken over by a malevolent alien, which must be sprayed with an alien-detecting substance and subsequently banished. One of the ways you can tell Bill's been possessed by an alien is if he suddenly prefers apple crisp lattes to pumpkin spice.
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Bill the Seal arrived in August 2020 for my son Danny's ninth birthday. Danny had fallen in love with a stuffed seal he'd spotted on my Instagram ads, and I found one available to order as "Chubby Blob Seal Pillow Stuffed Cotton Plush Animal Toy Cute Ocean Pillow (Gray, Small)."
You remember what August 2020 was like — that awful time when everyone knew COVID was going to ooze into the fall and probably longer, but no one really knew exactly what it would be like. Also, no one really knew what to do about it, other than that all of the options were bad.
Danny and his older brother, Henry, were partway through the most exhausting and confusing year of their small lives. But they found a source of joy in Bill: shaping his personality, building up his backstory, riffing on each other's ideas like chaotic improv comics.
Bill loves it when anyone mentions seals, even when they're not talking about aquatic mammals, and will squeal "SEAL!" in response. But if you say the word "dill," Bill dies. Luckily, he is quickly and easily resurrected if someone yells, "Revive!"
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Every family has objects of childhood creativity that pass through and leave their mark. But rather than graduating to a beloved memory as we left the intense COVID years behind and my kids became teenagers, Bill has somehow become more present in our family's life.
The kids keep adding to Bill Lore, which only gets stranger as they get older. Bill is the core of half our inside jokes, like we're sleeper agents activated by seal-related puns.
Once, during a baptism, our pastor announced that the baby had been "sealed forever with the cross of Christ." My family looked at each other, eyes bugged out, holding our breath to keep from disrupting the ritual by shouting, "SEALED!"
When I'm away from home, I snap pictures of references to seals and text them to the kids: a "Give Seals Space" sign on an Atlantic beach, a jar with the phrase "Sealed for your protection."
When I'm alone in the house, I sometimes find Bill and place him in the front window, where he likes to watch for everyone to come home.
Danny and Henry say that someday, when they are very old, the nurses who care for them will think Bill was a person — an exceedingly eccentric, impossible person, but someone they knew, and knew well. Someone they loved.
Bill arrived in a moment of stress and uncertainty. As much as I'd like to say the world is simpler now, it's not. My kids, no longer little boys, are more aware than ever of the precarity and complexity of life, as are many kids of their generation.
I think that's why we cling to Bill, weaving him deeper and deeper into our family's story. We need his absurdity to show us that the world always has room for silliness, even in difficult times — which are all times, if we're honest about it. He reminds us how valuable creativity is in those times, too. As our lives keep changing, as the kids grow up and the world keeps surprising us, Bill connects us.
Or, you might just say, he seals us. ♦
Tara Roberts is a writer who lives in Moscow with her husband and sons. Her novel Wild and Distant Seas was published in January. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @tarabethidaho.
