Day: April 8, 2009

You know the drill.

 

PAD

Ariel and I saw “Wicked” last night (great show, by the way) and we had dinner at Ellen’s Stardust, as we often do if we’re in the city. Now the way many tables are arranged at Ellen’s is that there are long single banks of cushioned seats along the middle with single tables pushed up to them and single chairs opposite. So basically it’s a whole row of tables for two. Ariel and I were seated on the end of one row and there was a young mom with her fourteen month old son who seemed fascinated by the singing wait staff.

Then he spotted me. Instantly he pulled out of his mother’s grasp and tried to get to me. She pulled him back but he just kept trying to slip away to get to me. “Don’t worry about it,” I said and she let him go. He scooted down the seat, clambered directly into my lap and started pulling with great interest at my beard.

“Does Dada have a beard?” I asked. Mom nodded. I asked where Dada was, figuring he was going to be meeting them there.

“He’s overseas,” she said. “He’s a military infantryman stationed in Iraq.” That, of course, explained it. The child’s dad was a fleeting figure in his life, and at such a young age, children will fixate on a distinctive facial feature and get confused as to people’s identity.

Turned out that mom was a teacher from Florida and, having spring break, decided to come up to New York on an adventure with son Bruce. Since Bruce seemed happily ensconced on my lap, mom slid over and joined Ariel and me. (I assume Ariel’s presence established my cred as a dad rather than just some creepy guy.) Mom seemed to be bearing up well as effectively a single mother considering the circumstances. We chatted about a variety of things, including things she could do in NY with Bruce over the next few days. Bruce, meantime, sat quietly, interested in the world around him and watching the conversation, but otherwise silent. “Is he talking much?” I said.

“He says ‘Up,'” she said. “He doesn’t say Mama or Dada yet. I’d love for him to say that.”

Fortunately I’d ordered a sandwich, so I could eat with one hand while Mom, who had ordered chicken parm, gratefully was able to eat without having to wrangle her child. Then I served as a human high chair (Ellen’s didn’t have any normal high chairs available) while she fed him spaghetti.

Then, as we were preparing to leave, I made ready to hand Bruce back to Mom. And this child looked up at me, looked me right in the eyes, stroked my beard again, and said clear as a bell, “Dada.” And again, “Dada.” Then he patted my face and said a third time, “Dada.”

And I have no idea how to feel about that. Melancholy, I suppose. That this boy’s father was thousands of miles away, missing his son saying his name for the first time, and he was saying it to a stranger. Mom told me that Dada would be home on leave for a short time in a couple of weeks and would hopefully be rotated home in September.

Here’s hoping.

PAD