random anecdote

My sister-in-law spotted a toddler-sized firefighter's outfit online back in September and ordered one for The Prince. It arrived in mid-October. It's a nicely-made outfit, heavy fabric, a solid helmet, his name embroidered on the left breast. When we first unboxed the uniform and showed it to my son, he started pulling off the clothes he had on so he could change into the costume. Since this is the first year he seemed to show interest in Halloween, we figured we had a hit.

Halloween came and unlike the past few years, the weather cooperated with dry skies, if a little cool. My son went to school that day, specifically not in costume as mandated by the school's coordinator. His teachers handed out a packet of M&M's to each member of his class and wished them all a Happy Halloween on the way out. I talked to him when I got home about putting on his uniform and walking around our block like a few children were already doing, but my son just looked up at me quizzically, his brow knitted into one of those punctuation curly brackets laid on its side, peaking between the eyes, as if to ask what this absurd notion had to do with his logical and orderly routine. Despite the Spocking I was getting from my kid, I was still surprised later when he refused to put on his uniform. No tantrum, no screaming, just abject refusal. "No firefighter," he explained to my wife and I, waving us off with a raised hand. Instead, he preferred to sit on our stoop and hold the candy basket for the visiting superheroes, princesses and railroad hoboes, grinning ear to ear. I snapped a photo so we'd have a record of the holiday, but I had a rough time fighting off the disappointment of not being able to walk him around and show him off, my polite and handsome boy dressed as one of his heroes.

A week and a half went by, the uniform hanging in his closet, only the helmet getting occasional play. There was plenty of room to grow in the costume, so knowing he'll be able to wear it next year cushioned the blow, but seeing it there when I'd reach in for his jacket would still make me sigh. I was getting ready for work, not due in until the afternoon. The Prince was busy hugging up his beloved sitter who'd just arrived for the day. I could hear a fire engine honk its horn a few blocks off, but disregarded the sound since we live two blocks away from the local firehouse. Instead, I spent 20-30 seconds looking in the bathroom mirror, wondering why the hell I keep growing what looks like stray strands of black wire on the bridge of my nose.

I heard the engine honk again, closer. A lot closer. Before I could fully ask where it was I had my answer with another honk, right outside our house. As I walked to the front door, my son was hopping up and down at the porch window. "Firefighter!"

My neighbor across the street had called them, I heard her telling the squad from her sidewalk that some grease had caught fire and she'd been able to put it out, but wanted to be certain there was no danger. The firefighters trundled into the house and around back to the kitchen.

I stood on my steps and watched for a moment, thinking about my father, pausing on a scrap of memory I have of being in his station house, somewhere near 1969, 1970, the huge engines right up close, the camaraderie of the firemen. I turned back to the porch window to find my son beaming, watching the flashing lights, counting the firefighters.

I don't think the idea came in a flash, it was just suddenly there, like those moments where you thought you've lost your keys and then they are in hand, right in your pocket where they've been all along. The idea was there and I had everything I needed to make it happen, but I needed to act fast.

"Firefighter? Put. On?"

"That's right, pal, let me buckle you up."

Just like that, my son was in uniform and my camera was in hand. We ran out to the sidewalk and he slowed down and stopped as we neared the fire engine, looking up as though looking at an enormous red beast. I tugged at his hand, but he firmly stood his ground, not scared, but cautious.

I placed his back to the engines and turned to step a few feet away, preparing for my three year old to lose the mercurial interest a toddler holds in most things parents hope they'll enjoy. I turned back to look.

My son stood up straight, shoulders back and let loose a toothy grin, his helmet cocked back, the sun breaking through to shine on his face. I held my camera to my eye and fired off shot after shot as he giggled in joy.