Beyond the usual blessings, our family had a great deal to celebrate on that Thanksgiving Day. Both of our children and their families, as well as my wife and I, had moved into new and nicer homes, with my wife and I settling into a new condominium in a Retirement Community a few miles east of San Francisco. In addition to generally good health, fulfilling jobs, and happy times, our daughter had given birth in July to a delightful, healthy baby girl, Alexandra or Ally. Just one month before the holiday, in October, our daughter-in-law and son also welcomed a new child into the family, a wonderful boy named Martin or Marty. Thanksgiving Day brought happiness and sincere thanks from all of us as we gathered with a few friends at our daughter’s and son-in-law’s home.
In addition to the family and old friends our son-in-law invited a co-worker from India who had been in the United States about two months and was enjoying his first celebration of an American holiday. The joyous occasion went well. We all had eaten at least enough, and probably too much, at the sumptuous dinner to which everyone had contributed.
After dinner four month old Ally, who suffered from a mild case of colic, cried incessantly from the pain in her young tummy. I, as grandfather, took it upon myself to comfort her by carrying her around the house, softly singing to her, rocking her in my arms, and doing anything I could think of to ease her discomfort. Taking her into the bathroom, I held her while she stood on the counter and admired the image of a baby that she saw in the large mirror. Too young to realize that the image was her own, she reached out to touch the “other” baby and, smiling, quieted down and stopped crying. We stood in front of the mirror for some time, then, again I cradled her in my arms and carried her into the living room.
When we left the bathroom and entered the living room, my son David asked, “Whatcha been doing, Dad?” Innocently I answered, “Ally and I have been looking at the baby in the mirror.” He answered back with just a touch of disrespect and sarcasm, “Dad, there is no baby in the mirror.”
With that simple statement and with no other signal of any sort between us, we immediately conjured the ghosts of Abbott and Costello and went into a routine that stopped the others from their chores so they could watch the “entertainment.”
Acting the part of the domineering father, I called on my not inconsiderable acting talent and stated rather haughtily, “David, I just saw the baby in the mirror,” to which he replied, more superciliously than before, “Dad, I am telling you, there is no baby in the mirror.”
With mock anger and frustration, our voices got louder and were and more strident as we continued our performance; “David, don’t contradict me. I saw the baby in the mirror with my own eyes.”
By now those who knew us well had stopped cleaning the table, doing dishes, or fixing “care” packages with left over turkey and fixin’s. Some shook their heads and mumbled, saying things like, “Here they go,” or “They’re at it again,”–all that is except the poor young man from India. With his eyes almost popping from his head, one could almost hear him thinking, “What kind of American holiday is this where a seventy year old father and forty year old son might come to blows about whether there is a baby in a mirror?” He was convinced that he was about to be a witness to fight, or even murder. As our exchange got more “heated,” he surreptitiously and slowly inched from the wall opposite the door toward what he must have assumed was only path of escape from the mayhem about to happen.
David and I continued our charade. After I insisted that there was a baby in the mirror, I announced that I would go back into the bathroom to check one more time. Carrying Ally with me, I emerged from the bathroom proudly proclaiming, “All right!! I saw the baby in the mirror—again.”
Unperturbed, David simply restated his position, “There is no baby in the mirror.” Almost shouting, I insisted that he go and look for himself, which he did, emerging from the bathroom, shrugging, and reiterating, “I’m sorry, Dad, but there is no baby in the mirror.”
My pretended anger rising, I almost screamed, “Damn it, David, I saw the baby in the mirror.” He merely shook his head in response, implying that the old man was losing it, or had lost it. By this time all the onlookers in the know were having fun and laughing with our routine. Everyone, that is, except the chap from India. More convinced than ever that blood was about to be shed, he stood awestruck and frozen by the front door.
David by this time had sat again in the chair facing the room with the controversial mirror. Sensing that it was about time to end the charade, I said to him, “Look, we have got to settle this once and for all. I am going to look in the mirror one more time.” With that I added, “You hold Ally while I look.” I handed him his niece—my granddaughter. I returned to the bathroom mirror, alone this time. When I came out I appeared totally shaken and contrite saying, “I can’t believe it. There is no baby in the mirror, but I am certain that I saw . . .” Here I let my voice trail out and apologized to my son. David, showing no mercy to his disbelieving father, simply said, “I told you so.” We then began to discuss football as if nothing had ever happened with babies and mirrors. Nothing had, of course.
With that family and friends smiled, chuckled, or laughed out loud, giving the two actors a smattering of applause, and all returned to their chores. Everyone except, of course, the visitor from India. He continued to stand by the door, unsure of what had just transpired. Although there was nothing to indicate it, we could not help but wonder if his return to India a few months later had been motivated, at least in part, by the strange doings at the Thanksgiving holiday at his colleague’s home: All that idiotic fuss and bother about “a baby in a mirror.”
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