Yep, That's Mine

"Little boy! Little boy!"

I don't know whether it was the sudden note of panic in the aquarium attendant's normally bored baritone or the thirty seconds of attention that I'd given to my toddler that cued me in, but I knew immediately that the little boy in question was mine.

Every day, as the ceaseless flow of half-attentive second-daters and the droves of overstimulated children with overwrought parents filed through, the attendant's voice introduced the gliding array of knee-high sharks and manta rays with the same dull words:

Gooooood afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls... Welcome to interactive portion of our little aquarium where sharks and manta rays are right within reach... Please remember to use two fingers and two fingers only to touch the backs of our fishy friends. No pinching, no grabbing, and no falling in. Gooooooood afternoon...

Jesse loved the manta rays and one ray in particular loved him right back. Every week that we visited, racing past the lemurs and the ponderous box turtles, Jesse ran right up to the petting tank's edge and looked eagerly for the feistiest, fattest manta ray, patting the water with his strong little hands, still soft with baby fat. Like clockwork, the ray would work its way around the edge of the tank and rise to Jesse's fingers, prodding with its rubbery "nose" and undulating its fanned out fins so that the water splashed and Jesse and squealed and other children swarmed to his side, enchanted. It was magic, really. Every Thursday morning around 10:30. So, naturally, I got complacent and let the well-worn story unfold while I lifted a three year-old Sam up to reach the lapping water and turned to roll up the frilled sleeves of Emma's favorite dress.

"Little boy! Little boy! Please put down the shark!"

The aquarium attendant was leaning aggressively out of a little booth on the opposite side of the tank from the visitors, clutching a wired microphone with two normally idle hands. I turned, my heart sinking, and found Jesse's manta ray wandering my direction, having lost Jesse's normally rapt attention. And behind it, several long steps away, stood Jesse, triumphantly raising above his head the torso of a rather sizable, extremely agitated shark.

I have no memory of running across the room, of scolding or apologizing or safely returning the poor beast to the water. I cannot recall wether the attendant spoke to us any further or whether the looks we received from other parents were scathing or amused. I can only recall the marriage of chest-heaving laughter and gut-wrenching embarrassment warring in my torso for dominance. By the time I reached Jesse, the shark's gyrations had convinced him to release the little predator back into its little habitat, and as my long legs carried my complicated emotions over to him, my son lifted a wide-open, rapturous face to meet me.

As abruptly as I'd started to run, I dropped to one knee in front of my son.

"Hey," I said, breathless.

Wordless, radiant, and soaking wet, Jesse beamed back.

I held up two fingers, pressed together, and held back embarrassed laughter with a Mona Lisa smile, feeling for all the wild world like a rumpled, disheveled madonna holding out a blessing. Jesse held up to two fingers to mine and danced a little with delight.

"Two fingers, buddy," I said, eyebrows raised. "Right?"

Mirroring my expression, Jesse nodded. It wasn't often that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesse understood me. It was even less common for me to feel absolutely certain that a deep, glorious, impossible desire of Jesse's had been finally, fully satisfied. Around us, the crowd shifted from frozen shock to murmuring and drifting past. Shakily, the attendant's voice resumed its monologue over a somewhat steadied microphone. Jesse and I hugged, turned back to the tank, and there, the biggest and brightest manta ray splashed and wiggled against the glass, as though to applaud the show.