The Scary

Jarrah is going through a new scaredy-cat phase. She's not afraid of the usual stuff, like new people, or heights, or the dark (though she does request a night light these days.) Her fears are unpredictable, and--though I try to be understanding--totally bizarre.

A few nights ago, we went to Santee (Hi, Robyn!) for dinner at the Pinnacle Peak Steakhouse. (A small aside: I was really disappointed that it's a chain. A chain of three, but still. I liked my fantasy that we had our very own slice of Route 66 Americana just up the road.) The place is dark and woody and the walls are thick with chopped-off men's ties, each hanging beneath an index card with a name and a date. You take your leftovers home in a paper bag with the menu printed on it.

When we requested a table, there was no waiting, and the hostess smilingly gestured us to follow her. But not before Jarrah, hawk-eye that she is, spotted the entryway decor, which included an iron sculpture of a cowboy on horseback. On the wall above his head hung a weathered Western saddle. It's true, the arrangement doesn't make much sense. Why are these two items juxtaposed? The scale is all wrong. It's like the saddle is a synecdoche or something.

Still, far be it for me to be offended by interior decorating. I'm not going to take much notice unless someone is trying to hang it up in my house. Jarrah, however, skidded in her tracks, pointed, and asked in a quavering voice:

Jarrah: Whas that?

Sam: It's a...statue. Of a man on horseback. Let's go eat.

Jarrah: Statue can get me?

Sam: No, it can't get you. It doesn't move. That's why it's called a statue.

Jarrah: Why it scary?

Sam: It's not scary.

Jarrah: It is.

We whisked her from the room and once ensconced in our booth with a big basket of bread and some crayons, I figured she'd forget about it. And she seemed to, for a minute. Then she got that haunted look in her eyes again and moaned:

Jarrah: I don't want to go near the scary.

Sam: We're not near the scary. It's in another room. We're going to sit in here and eat some chicken. Won't that be nice?

Jarrah: The statue is very scary. Why it scary?

Sam: I think it's just your perception. Would you feel better if our waitress told you it wasn't scary?

Jarrah: Yeah.

Our waitress wore an expression like I was asking her to strip and dance in tasseled pasties as I attempted to explain our needs. But she made a game effort.

Waitress: No, it's not scary. It's just a statue. I work here every day, and it's never bothered me once.

Sam: Does that make you feel better, sweetheart?

Jarrah nodded, but her eyes were round and unblinking. Our food came, and as I was cutting her chicken, her eyes welled over with tears, and the moaning began again.

Sam: Honey, we're not anywhere near the statue. It can't move. We're in another room.

Jarrah: I not hungry. The scary might try to get me.

At this point, I could tell we were not going to have a light-hearted family evening of wholesome fare and happy conversation. Instead, Jarrah was going to moan and weep, and David and I would eat furtively between attempts to reassure her that a hideous Western-themed lobby sculpture was not going to tear her limb from limb at its next available opportunity. Such is the glorious spontaneity of life with a child.

By the time we were leaving, most of the restaurant knew our story, and a lot of people, including the manager, were trying to mollify Jarrah. The manager even suggested that they should think about painting blue eyes on the black hollow indentations where the rider's eyes should have been, to help humanize him. Frankly, I doubt it would help, but Jarrah looked like she was ready to wield a paintbrush right now. We were so discombobulated that we left my precious "Two Sisters and Ewe" diaper bag under our table (I guess we need to find a new name for it) and had to go back the next day.

Jarrah didn't want to go back, for any reason. She said the scary was going to get her. But she had to, and David went right up to the scary to show her it was actually friendly, or at the very least, disinterested. He asked Jarrah if she was still scared, and she said no.

David: Would you like to come a little closer?

Jarrah: I will--in five weeks.