Mister Vanity

In the last couple months, Cass has arrived at the realization that people can exist in another form. First came the infatuation with the mirror. Like all babies (I'm guessing?), he loved to stand on the bathroom counter, touching hands with the baby in the mirror, leaning in for a wet kiss only to bump his head. The baby in the mirror had a familiar quality, and he immediately sensed an intimate connection, but he didn't yet understand the concept of reflection. No amount of head-bumping helped.

A month or so later, I hung our family portrait in the living room. Cass was fascinated by these miniature versions of his parents. He would stand on the floor, pointing up at the framed photo, giggling uncontrollably at his discovery. "Ha! I know them! Looky, Mama--there you are. Up there! Look, look!," he shouts silently with his teeny pointer finger rigidly extended. So adorable, I nearly melted into the floor every time. He begged to be picked up and delivered to the photo for close-up inspection, resulting in more massive giggle attacks. He immediately led all guests to the photo, so they, too, could marvel at this photographic miracle. He was so proud.

Lately, with the onset of the summer heat, we've been taking Cass to the Riverfront, where squealing kids run through a ground-level fountain spouting up like mini geysers in a criss-cross pattern. The kids dance around in bare feet, some in bathing suits, while adults snap photos and sit on cement benches, looking out over the Detroit River to Canada, with a backdrop of the city in the other direction, enjoying the unspoken camaraderie of raising kids in Detroit. It's after-work--that time when families are usually home eating dinner--but parents of small, excitable children find themselves instead administering snacks from tupperware containers, so we can stretch these magical summer evening hours closer to bedtime. People smile and chat freely, and Cass--the most social of all--is in his glory.

For our most recent Riverfront outing, I decide to bring the video camera, since I've only ever used it one other time (his first birthday), and I'm feeling kind of guilty about that bad-mommy fact. In an effort to right my wrong, I plan to capture him testing the water with curious trepidation, then heading into it's center streams, getting caught in a sudden outburst, as the water height goes from ankle-level to well above his head with no systematic cycle that I can detect. He springs to attention every time, scampering on his tip-toes to safety, making futile efforts to dodge the jets. He's like a bowling ball baby, knocking down water pins; a drunken football player who can't weave through a field of linebackers. He gets absolutely soaked. This night, of course, video camera in hand, it's viciously windy and Cass is wise enough to steer clear of the resulting spray. He gets nary an arm hair wet. I am deflated.

My video is uneventful, but I review it anyway when I get home. Cass peers over my arm with a wrinkled brow. He looks at the screen, and before I notice the sign of recognition spread across for his face, he makes a sudden advancement toward the camera. He's a boy with an obsession for anything electronic, so this doesn't surprise me. But instead of wrestling the camera from my grip, he sweetly kisses its screen. Then he kisses it again. Open-mouth, dripping in drool. I can't stop laughing, and he looks confused. He sees himself running away from the fountain, hair blowing wildly in the wind. Recognition. And another big kiss. I wish I could get that on video.

See Cass at the Fountain