"Are YOU my Papa?"

Ever since Popeye has met his paternal grandfather, Papa Brown, there seems to exist this binding love connection between them. His eyes light up when he spots him- or any man with a slight resemblance to him. The poor soul's disappointment when the face is not that of the strong, balding man with the hardy laugh but a stranger.

Sometime around six months Harrison proudly began to utter the words "pa pa pa pa." Papa Brown has since been in heaven. As soon as Popeye lays his eyes on him the letters emerge. "pa pa! pa pa!" and curls onto the mans chest with a satisfied smirk.

Slowly though... the words "papa" have come to be an identification not just for that man but for ANY man. Constantly in public Popeye points to strange men and then forms his hand into his sign for question, a fresh palm up beside his face and asks, "Papa?"

Sometimes I swear that kid is daddy hunting. Pointing to strangers he calls out, "papa!" and when the man doesn't respond the confused child looks at me and questions, "papa?"

It doesn't stop there. He must investigate: are you a papa? At the Children's Museum this past Autumn he went up to every man, hands out for them to hold him and constantly uttering, "Papa? Papa? Papa?" Their wives send me screw-faced looks. Apologizing in my mind to the women I make attempts to retrieve my son. (Don't worry honey, I like'm with teeth. You can keep him.)
Back at a "Fun Foods" station I distract Popeye with plastic bananas.
"Banana?" I offer.
"Papa." He insists, pointing at a short, slightly rounding father of a blond toddler.
"Thats not Papa."
"Papa!" he growls.
The rounding mans wife sends me a steeley look as the man smiles.
(You can keep THAT one and his belly too...)

Yesterday at Target Popeye and I are making our way through aisles. A greasy haired, wrinkly clothed man who smells of one part body order, one part vodka and one part well worn tennis shoes walks beside us. "Papa?" Casually, I try to pass off my sons advance. "No, silly. That's not papa." I don't make eye contact with the man. My child's small hand waves and smiles. "Papa!" Flattered the man waves back. "He's so friendly!" (Please, Harrison... I'm pleading in my mind at this point. Can't you at least pick a clean one??) A woman walks past and waves to the greasy man, "Hi, Bill! How've ya been?"

So the greasy man has a name. Bill. Greasy Bill.
Greasy Bill waves back, "oh, just making new friends."

GREAT. Now we're all friends.

My son yells, "papa!"
The man repeats, "So friendly! Just like his momma."
Perhaps I was exhausted of these papa scenarios; or maybe I'm apprehensive that Greasy Bill is making a Greasy pass at me. Likely with far too much enthusiasm I quip, "I'm not friendly."
Greasy Bill's expression droops. Apparently, I've disheartened Greasy Bill.

My goal now being two fold, 1. Repair any hurt feelings and 2. ESCAPE, I say, "Have a nice day! Stay warm!" Popeye and I make a hard right into the home repairs aisle. We have no intention of doing any home repairs in the near future.

Speaking of the near future, I think it may be in my best interest to make the one hour drive on Sunday to remind Popeye who the real Papa is...