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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | 2004 November 27
Little white tigress slays dragon
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
Recently, I was invited to a gathering where infants were aplenty. It was a good opportunity for me to spend time with my surrogate children, and enjoy the benefits of parenthood, sans responsibility.
Narod, the 10-month-old irresistible princess, arrived with her family entourage. Immediately, I whisked her away from mommy for a telepathic baby-talk and a rare bonding experience. Narod didn't seem to mind. She quickly examined my facial features; her inquisitive stare suggested she had something to say: "Hmm... you look kinda framiliar. Aren't you the shtrange fella who came to visit me in the hoshpital after I made my grand entransh to this world?"
"That'sh me, Paatrig ammo (uncle)!"
Her extrasensory response followed: "I've heard my shishter and brother call you ammo, so, you can't be too bad. I think I'll let you hold me for a little while without making a big fussh... Jusht return me to mommy in time for haam-haam (dinner, in Armenian baby-talk). I don't want to missh out on the vanilla cushtard."
Now firmly in my arms, Narod arched her back away from me in an effort to enlarge her visual radius. She zoomed in with her paternal sky-blue eyes, and began her thorough examination of my olive-skinned face, up, down... Once she was done with my face, she proceeded to scrutinize whatever else was within her limited perspective. Something below my chin had caught her attention. She tilted her head, focused her angelic eyes on my shirt and remained motionless for a few seconds.
GG Couple of weeks ago, I had gotten a Japanese-style tattoo on my chest in the shape of a dragon. I was wearing a buttoned up dress shirt for the occasion. The less I showed, the better chance I had of not being picked on by my married friends.
Somehow, Narod had identified the dragon resting quietly under my white shirt: "What'sh thish!? A dragon? He wazhn't with you when you came to visit me in the hoshpital!"
"Well... no, Narod. He wasn't with me. But, can we talk about his later? As in 20 years later?"
I placed my left hand on my chest to block her view of the beast.
But the baby inspector wouldn't give up. Once she determined I had something to hide, she made a frisky lunge forward. The little white tigress grabbed a hold of my shirt with her tiny hands and began pulling.
I gently dragged her hand away and closed down my shirt again. I did not want the dragon to become a topic of conversation over dinner.
She made a second and more resolute leap and firmly clasped on my shirt. With her newfound anchor, she pulled herself forward and made eye contact with the yellow-eyed dragon.
Right before dinner, I released the little tigress to mommy tigress, and reported my findings: "I think Narod liked my tattoo."
"That's NOT a good sign!" was the unanimous response from her parents.
Not long after I'd had a bite of the chee-kyoofteh (Lebanese steak-tartar), the topic unraveled by Narod came back to haunt me. The kyoofteh had reached the middle of my throat when the questioning from the grown-ups began:
"Sooo, baron Paatrig, why the tattoo?"
I swallowed the raw meat, and cleared my throat: "Anank ('just because')."
Narod had managed to get me into trouble. Meanwhile, she was quietly stuffing her face with the vanilla custard: "Ummm... this is good shtuff.
"I think I'll just stare at the counter of my high chair so that I don't make eye contact with Paatrig ammo ..."
But the grown-ups continued: "No really, why did you do it?"
I had a poetic response for such occasions: "The dragon sits in front of the locked gates leading to my heart. He protects my heart from thieves disguised as goddesses."
"Is it working?" someone asked.
"So far, so good," I replied. But in truth, the dragon had already been slain by the little tigress. And in the process she had unlocked my cardiac gates, and swallowed up the key along with the vanilla custard.
She had taken over all the four chambers.
After dinner Narod and I went for a walk utilizing my legs. I took her to the patio and sat her on the homemade baby swing. We continued our telepathic exchange. By this time she had dropped her baby talk, as if she had been pulling my leg all night:
"You know Paatrig ammo, I am a lucky child. And I feel especially lucky right now, as my stomach is full of vanilla custard and colorful fruits, not to mention the fact that you are at my disposal to keep me swingin' while I dose off. But seriously, did you know most people living in poverty are children?
"Poverty denies children their rights. It weakens their protective environment; abuse and exploitation are linked to deeply entrenched poverty. Daddy tells me you write for the News-Press and Leader; I think in the spirit of the holidays, you should tell your readers I want them to find out how they can help the less fortunate children at http://www.unicef.org."
"Sure thing, princetta..."
Copyright 2004 Glendale News Press
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