Another Day, Another Baldwin

You apparently can't swing a baby in this town without hitting a Baldwin brother.

On Saturday night, Scott and I took my parents, who were visiting from Western Maryland, to a French bistro we like in our neighborhood. It being Mother's Day Eve, we brought Henry along and he was snoozing and drooling adorably in the handy little car seat cum stroller we use just for restaurants.

"There are famous people here," said my father, scanning the white table clothes and tuxedoed waiters. "I just don't know who they are."

He was correct on both counts. Alec Baldwin was sitting a few feet from us. My parents were oblivious, never having seen an episode of "30 Rock." This is because (1) the only television they watch are sports and DVDs of "24" and (2) they spend an inordinate amount of time horseback riding and attending turkey fries.

But I was excited - my second Baldwin in a week! The only question was whether he, like his brother Stephen only a few days earlier, would compliment me on my beautiful son. While Alec paid his check, I played it cool, pushing the sleeping Henry with my foot into Alec's path to the door. And sure enough, he stopped and bent over to peer into Henry's stroller where Henry was now grunting and farting the way he always does when trying to regain consciousness. Alec beamed at me. "Congratulations!" he said.

"Two for four!" I shouted back at him, pumping my fist in the air. I was collecting Baldwin compliments they way I used to collect KISS trading cards. I just needed Billie and Daniel and then my collection would be complete.

My parents didn't understand what all the hoopla was about. It is virtually impossible to impress my parents because they are clueless about the important things in life, like celebrities and good restaurants. It is equally impossible to embarrass them.

This is mainly because my father suffers from an affliction that has baffled the experts, but which one intrepid specialist called a "phonemic hole." Simply put, my father lacks the skill most toddlers have to blend sounds into words that make sense. My mother, after more than forty years of marriage, has learned to love him unconditionally and my brothers and I have teased him mercilessly about it. He is a beloved psychologist in my hometown and folks there know about Doctor Jack and his funny way of talking. But to the uninitiated, he comes off like a lunatic.

Thus, "phonemic hole" in my father's mouth becomes "pepperoni roll." Ask him his favorite movie and he'll tell you it's "The Shimshaw Resurrection" -- or "The Shawshank Redemption" to you and me. When he asked the 7-11 clerk if they sold Cardinal Rickenbacker, I was there to translate "Orville Redenbacher" for him.

To understand my father when he speaks requires context and lots of it. Thus, when he called me from the car on the way home from his visit absolutely apoplectic because he left his "story teller machine" at my house, I knew that he meant the CD player he stored in a fanny pack along with several books-on-CD. He was understandably upset because the storyteller machine doubles as a tune-out-my-mother machine and he truly couldn't face life without it. Scott dutifully assured him that he would return it pronto by Non-State Quick Service.

As a result of his illness, my father can't remember anyone's name. Scott's mother's name is Roberta. My father really likes Roberta. Nonetheless, after I offered him a thousand dollars if he could come up with Scott's mother's name, he could only sputter "Rurrr, rurrrr, rurrrrr," like a Model T being cranked. My brothers and I once offered to pool all of our savings and write him a nice fat check if only he could come up with the name of the evil mastermind behind the 9-11 plot. "Osman, Oscar, Ombudsman," my father said, turning purple with effort.

This is mean sport, but especially so because my father subsists on a $5 per day allowance my mother lets him have from his earnings, as if he were a wet brain instead of a Ph.D. with a thriving practice. But he puts up with it because she makes his favorite meals for dinner and reminds him to button the top of his pants.

And I think they really, truly are happy.