Dave the Dad 5 - Baby Steps
Like many new parents we have a fine, dog-eared collection of 'How to' books. How to notice when your child is ill, How to get your baby to sleep, How to teach your baby to eat, How to tell what your child means when he consistently tries to get in the bin. But in the last ten months we have developed a growing confidence, a burgeoning sense that we can second guess our son as his personality sharpens and he becomes, frankly, a clone of my wife. But one that seems more tolerant of my maddening habit of leaving the bath mat on the floor to go mouldy after showering. In truth Tom hardly notices this as he scoots, whooping like a crane, to the porcelain tree growing in the corner. So we were genuinely excited last night when we picked up a book that Tom had just flung from the shelf and opted to see what new milestones he should be hitting.
Some were downright amusing such as 'Getting onto his front from a lying position'. Try to stop him. I have. The newest, most successful method is to quickly place him on his back, tower over him on all fours and then shake my head wildly, all the time biting onto the chain for the bath plug. He lies like a stunned guinea pig, eyes wide, head dipping with each arc of the shiny plug. This gives me 13.7 seconds to dry him thoroughly after his bath and then he's off, bored by the fact that he can't grab the plug and crack it into his skull at something approaching Mach 3. Changing was an issue for a while as all recent conditioning taught that he had to be prone. All that was needed was a temporal shift and I soon grasped that whatever I did he would invariably flip himself over, a leaf caught in a storm of exploration, and slide off across the carpet Tamagotchi-style.
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One approach I took early on to counter his refusal to lie still was to try and inject a note of discipline. 'No!' I would intone in my Welshest baritone, frowning so acutely that I prayed the wind would keep in the right quarter. This, I thought, was massively successful. Not necessarily because he listened and reacted thoughtfully but because he would invariably cry. However, it became evident that this was simply due to the position in which I had placed him, ie. on his back. I remember turning to Jane, 'It's just a matter of will. I lay him on his back, see, place my hand tenderly on his tummy, there, and when he moves, like that, I say 'No!' and he stops. He stops. He stops. No! He stops.' At which point the crying would mushroom, Jane would stare at me as though she had recently discovered Herod's number in my Friends and Family list and I would give up.
All the same, perseverance has paid off as he does now recognise the word 'No' and reacts to it. Generally he immediately stops trying to feed Mr Whoosit into the video, turns to face me, laughs uproariously and then resumes. 'No', in Tomland is the funniest joke ever and I regularly peek out of the window whilst rebuking our son half expecting to see a lifeless mound of passers-by, all of whom have done a Python.
Which brings me to 'Being polite and handing toys to others'. Here too, perseverance has won a limited victory. I hold my hand out -limply, there's no imperative here!- and ask 'Can Daddy have it?'. Tom looks at me, looks at my hand, looks at his toy and then holds it out. Marvellous. We have a mini Mother Teresa in our midst! It is only when you take the toy that you fully appreciate the bargain as Tom's hand fails to retreat. So much for saintly nuns; this baby is more a small Shylock, expecting recompense. Not a pound of flesh certainly although a couple of pounds of semolina never goes amiss. At least he now lets go; the first few weeks saw him proffer his gift only to hang onto it for dear life once someone else became interested. And believe me, he has a grip of steel. I'm convinced he lifted himself clear of the ground last night as he lay vertical against his cot, hips bucking for Elvis while I mopped around the business end and tried not to make gagging noises for fear of future hang-ups. I sometimes picture the scene. 'Yeah, well I can't go to the toilet if I know someone else is awake in the same county because when I was a kid my dad always made out that my faeces could stun a bull elephant. Fascist!'
The last this week is the new trick of 'Saying Mama or Dada indiscriminately'. In much the same way that the first smile is lovely, beautiful, awesome even though it is undoubtedly rogue gas, so the first time he said 'Dada' was wonderful, incredible, heart-warming even though he was, at the time, trying to bend his xylophone into a double helix. I like to think he connected us as he must know I graduated from Leicester University (home of Crick, Watson and that woman no-one ever remembers) and I can play London Bridge on the xylophone. Think about it! To make such a connection shows an astonishing degree of lateral thinking. I nearly cried the day he said my name, even though he pronounced it 'Diieeyyyy-yyvvveeea' like Dick Van Dyke played on vinyl at the wrong speed. Now that's what I call a milestone: the instant when it became clear that I would swell with pride and some nascent nostalgia each time I happened to catch an episode of Diagnosis Murder.
July 15 2006
Dave Fouracre aka "Dave the Dad" is a regular feature writer here at thebabywebsite.com. Read more about his hilarious experiences as a Dad. |
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