Her Public

I'm pretty sure my 11 month old daughter loves me. I know I am greeted three times a day, every day, with the kind of reaction Ed McMahon might receive if he arrived at one's door arm-in-arm with Santa Claus. And she seems to be pretty happy to spend a lot of time together--at least I think I'd be able to tell if it was all just a scam, just a heartless ruse to get more bananas out of me, whatever it took.

Until we leave the apartment, that is. Once we hit the streets, all bets are off. You can basically consider me the horse she rode in on, the waiting limo, the vehicle necessary only to connect her with her adoring public.

Walks in the stroller are fine, but dull. Swinging at the park can be fun enough, but frustrating: people tend to pay attention to their own kids there. Give my daughter the subway or the bus any day: a large car packed with bored people, trapped with nothing better to do than to watch her. The wide smiles, the head tilts (all the way to the left, scrunched-up half-smile, then all the way to the right--all while keeping eye contact), the wave/salute, and, when necessary, the uproarious, squalking peacock laugh that gets even grumpy traders, commuting home after losing 10 million dollars, to crack a grin...the girl has an arsenal that would put Shirley Temple to shame, and she can't even walk or talk.

Tonight we had dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. It was pretty empty when we arrived, as we tend to beat the early bird crowd by about 15 minutes. At first she was able to make due: there were hostesses playing peekaboo and busboys with big smiles. But it wasn't enough. She began to obsess about getting the attention of the one busy table behind her--it was quite irritating for her, actually, the way someone at her own table kept trying to feed her things when obviously she needed to keep her body turned 180 degrees in the highchair in order to face them.

Luckily, things soon picked up. As more people began entering the restaurant, she welcomed them each with a hearty salute. Some smiled back, some laughed, most didn't actually notice, but she didn't care--she was in her element. Then Ricky Martin's voice came out of the speakers, singing La Vida Loca, and this party girl's cup runneth over. She swayed side to side in her high chair, laughing and kicking...and she even had to give mom and dad some props, as they were the only ones in the restaurant who seemed to know the same seated dance.

Putting on her coat and leaving was a buzz kill, but she was tired--holding court like that takes a lot of energy. And I don't mind being the background, the scenery, the blue screen to her adventures. I know who she comes home with every night.