Went to the mall last weekend. Again. It’s beginning to be Elliott’s home away from home. We have ventured out a handful of times in the past few months early in the morning when the place is virtually empty. At 9 a.m. he can shout and listen to his echo, he can ride with me up and down escalators until he is satiated and he has the opportunity to run around like a maniac without getting creamed by the stroller and teenage armadas. That was what we faced on the weekend which, instead of just being a chance to get out of the house for a while, was a humanitarian effort, accompanying Shelbi as she looked for clothes. I was reminded again today of an unfortunate byproduct of having a small child. It’s virtually impossible to be ignored.

Ever since about the 7th grade perhaps my biggest goal in life has been to not draw attention to myself. I’ve never thought it would be fun to be the frontman of a rock band. Let me be Charlie Watts. You still get to play great music and travel and you don’t have to make an ass out of yourself on stage. And why would anyone want to be a cast member on Saturday Night Live? Let me be a writer. Backstage. Less accountability. Count me in. But I digress.

For a solid decade, I made staying anonymous a science. Things changed a bit when I met Shelbi, one of only a few people I have known in my life with an absolute knack for attracting the crazies. I am convinced that I could ride the same bus to and from work every day for 20 years and never be approached by a single person in that time. I once was asked why my face’s natural expression made me look angry. But Shelbi? Plop her on a subway or a bus or in a line for a roller coaster and Beer Gut McChatterson will have knocked out his life story to her and invited us over for dinner in a matter of minutes. I think in five years of marriage we have helped to average each other out a bit in this regard.

But my lust for anonymity continues to be assaulted every time I’m out with Elliott. I’ll be ordering a coffee and hear the familiar sounds of baby talk and my shoulders will slump. “How do those fingers taste?” someone will ask my son and I just know I’m about to be engaged in a conversation. It’s not that I can’t handle myself in a small talk battle of trite questions vs. banal answers. In fact, I feel like my seven years talking to high school athletes and coaches have trained me for this moment. But I still feel uncomfortable every time. I even thought about making up a few dozens cards to carry around with me each time I go out in public to hand out. They would feature these answers in no particular order.

“Yes he is cute.”

“He is __ months old”

“He is my first”

“His name is Elliott”

“Yes, we’re out on an adventure today”

“Yes he is a good boy”

“He sucks on those two fingers when someone is invading his personal space.”

Hmm, that idea started as a joke but I think it has legs.