Soul Food for Kids

Adam has been singing Fats Waller since he could talk, so I jumped at the chance to take him to Ain't Misbehavin'. From the looks on the faces of the blue-haired, blue-blood crowd, one would have thought I'd taken a gorilla to see the queen.

I was impervious to the stares. I felt the way an ordinary-looking man must feel walking into a room with a stunning woman on his arm. "I'm here with my son," my insides shouted. "My 4 3/4-year-old son who knows every note to this musical."

Waiting in line in the ladies' room he asked, "Mom, will they sing `Fat and Greasy'?" Skeptical eyes looked down curiously on his little blond head. "I think they will," I assured him. "Please pull up your pants."

"Mom. Will they play `Your Feet's Too Big'?"

"I'd imagine so. Wash your hands, lovey."

The people around us seemed taken aback when the poker-faced usher showed us to our velvet seats. I was leading Adam by the hand so he wouldn't trip as he craned his neck to see the gilded ceiling and the Harlem streetscape onstage. "Mom. There's Fats Waller," he shouted.

"Yes, Adam. Now this is when we stop talking," I pleaded. "OK?"

Adam gripped his tiny figurine, a black knight with sword at the ready, as Fats Waller walked to his piano and began to play, his sausage fingers skipping over the keys. I struggled with where to look as my heart nearly burst from my chest. Raised on Broadway musicals, I hadn't been to theater since Adam was born. But here I was again, in the grip of the magic of live performance. But as much as the stage, I wanted to stare at Adam to watch the wonder in his eyes as his favorite music -- known only as a CD in the minivan, where he and his brother argue over which tune to hear first -- came to life with costumes, musicians, and dance. "Ain't misbehavin'. I'm saving my love for you."

Adam sat transfixed. A 40 3/4-year-old couldn't have been quieter during the performance or clapped more enthusiastically after each song. But few 40-year-olds would have been close to tears when the lights came up for intermission. "Is it over? They didn't play `Your Feet's Too Big.' " I reassured him: "After the break."

We wandered around the theater. I'd never wished so much for a jungle gym in the lobby. It was too much to hope that his little body could sit still through Act 2. In the crowd, Adam repeatedly dropped his knight. I heard whisperings: "Did you see that little boy?" I pretended they were jealous, wishing they'd brought their sons or grandsons. I refused to think they were complaining that a little one had invaded the sanctity of their grown-up, buttoned-down afternoon.

Even though Act 2 had more of Adam's favorite music, his age was beginning to reveal itself. He clapped just a little too long after each song. He sucked loudly on the black knight. I grabbed his foot just before it kicked the head in front of him. And then Fats Waller lured Adam in again. The pianist played the first bars of "Keepin' Out of Mischief Now," a haunting ballad of love and fidelity. Adam wiggled again. He was moving toward me. Smack! He planted a kiss on my cheek and pulled my arm around his shoulders -- his way of snuggling me during my favorite song. My 3 1/2-foot dream date.

On the way to the theater, I'd offered Adam a rare trip to McDonald's. "No, thanks. I'd rather go right to the play," he said. Adam already knows what many adults still don't. We need to feed kids' souls -- something Happy Meals can't do.

Michelle Bates Deakin is a writer in Arlington.