Beetle Baby

Kennesaw, GA

It’s been another one of those trying moments that I must believe plagues every new father at one point in time. Yet right now I know I’m the only dad in the world who is clueless about how to console a truly tearful infant.

There’s something about a mother’s touch. It’s the graceful way she sways while effortlessly holding him so tight and close to her that keeps a child calm and secure. It’s the way she can pick him up, sing sweetly in his ear and bring a river of peace to his world that I find amazing. It’s an experience I try and fail to recreate for him.

Toys. Bottle. Swing. Rocking chair.

I’m not sure what to try next but I am convinced there’s something he wants that I haven’t given him yet.

I peek out the window. It’s a hot summer day but it’s not as unbearable as a typical Georgian August can be. In a level of desperation one frequently descends to while taking on solo parenting duties, I scoop up my irritable child from a play mat that is providing him no joy and I head, screaming child in arm, for the door to our backyard.

I’m not sure where exactly to take Grant. However, I take note as we step outside when he simultaneously ceases his crying and lets out an adorable pint-sized gasp. He’s completely taken by the sight of trees towering overhead, the sound of birds chirping and flapping about, and perhaps shocked into wonder by the sudden rush of fresh summer air and delicious sunlight.

It’s only a few moments later that I spot my lonely, newly acquired Beetle sitting across the yard and I wonder what enjoyment Grant would derive from exploring its’ interior. I speedily bring him over to the near 40 year old car and cautiously open the driver’s side door with one hand while tightly holding his excited, quivering body with the other. I peer my head inside its’ dome and crane my neck around, anticipating a fowl, dank odor to be present due to the Beetle’s years of inactivity. Yet, I’m pleasantly surprised to find there is not a musty or repulsive scent but one that’s inviting and distinct like a forgotten bottle of Old Spice that’s been in a shoebox for years aromatizing a closet.

At first, I sit down carefully on the worn out vinyl seat with him squirming on my lap. And I then I simply watch him. I am fixated on my child with the same intensity and delight with which he stares (in alternating order) at, the steering wheel, the radio dials, the gear shift, the steering wheel again, the turn signal, back to the gear shift, the dangling wires from beneath the ignition switch. And then repeats the process again in random sequence occasionally letting out a squeal of sheer fascination.

I decide then that this moment is too rare to be trusted only to my memory for preservation and I slide out from underneath him and place him gingerly back down onto the old driver’s seat. Once I am sure he’s not going to plummet off from where he’s sat, I remove my trusty Blackberry and snap a few quick photos of the baby boy gleefully dwarfed as he is by the bug’s driver seat and steering wheel.

Once I’m satisfied that I’ve gotten some quality photos, at least that will suit my standards, we begin to retreat together back to the house. Otherwise, I fear the mosquitos would have a field day with his plump, pink flesh and I also think it’s time for him to try another bottle of milk before nap time.

As we walk away I can see in the corner of my eye Grant’s tiny head bobbing, still peering over my shoulder at his new friend. It’s then that I realize just how badly I want to see this car driven again… and soon. I dream of Ol’ Bloo one day guided by this adventurous boy while he sits on his daddy’s lap, taking command of a vehicle that also has captured his imagination.

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