Cot-free and ready to roam

Since Sonny's arrival just over 14 months ago, our little fella has spent his nights in a collapsible cot in our bedroom - initially in a shallow bassinet, then later making full use of the available space. But as longtime readers of this blog will know, he absolutely detests every waking moment spent in the cot (click here for some of our efforts to 'cure' him). He would howl down the house, toss out every toy and otherwise make it perfectly clear we were violating whatever childcare version there may be of the Geneva Conventions against cruel and inhuman punishment by keeping him thus confined.

Over the weekend, therefore, we folded up the cot and stowed it away. A futon took its place - and Sonny has now graduated to sleeping on the floor, free upon awakening to immediately embark on sundry adventures. In doing so, of course, we are taking a calculated risk. Despite every precaution, he might conceivable steal out of the room while we are slumbering and start parachute training using our settee, for instance. Or he might begin to carefully to chomp on the newspapers, or make a meal of sundry trash bags.

Still - and there's a broader moral here - you can't keep a child caged away from all danger forever. Soon enough, he'll have to take such vast risks as submerge briefly in water (if he is to learn to swim) and a little further on - gasp - cross the road on his own steam. There's no getting away from it, though we may throw up as many protective barriers as possible, from swim lessons to road-crossing coaching. With a bit of luck, nightmare scenarios will not come to pass: In the present case, when we are in the room the door will be securely shut and Sonny can't really reach the doorknob yet. Of course, there'll come a day the door is left ajar, and the little fella might revive at precisely the wrong moment and slip out to do a bit of wrecking.

Still, we have to weigh against this prospect the daily protestations by Sonny upon waking up in his cot, the increasing difficulty of conveying him there after he falls asleep elsewhere without his coming to and the like. And much the same calculus will have to be applied as he is progressively exposed to more and more 'dangers'. On the grandest scale of things, he'll have to be an independent operator in the big ole world sooner or later - and sometimes, it's the parents who need to do the most adjusting to come to terms with that terrifying prospect. Over-cocooning, if we might use that ugly but apposite phrase, only postpones the inevitable and ultimately results in a child unprepared for life.

What's a parent to do, but to begin the incremental letting-go earlier rather than later? The dilemma of 'but there's just the teeniest prospect of danger...' has to be confronted on a daily basis.

Five steps into danger

It's been a while since we've known that Sonny was capable of stringing together a few unsteady steps (click here for a relevant earlier post). But it was only yesterday that some switch was thrown and the little fella began walking on the wild side in earnest.

Suddenly, he can't get enough of flinging himself on his parents - upright. With a bit of help, he'll get into a stable starting position, then toddle rapidly for five or six steps into an adult's waiting arms. He'll cackle delightedly, clearly luxuriating in the triumph (and his parents' claps) before promptly preparing for a further effort. The problem was that for every two well-executed walk-throughs, there will be one or two spills, near-falls and football-star-style dives. Clearly, a dangerous era has dawned, with an increased chance of harmful collisions or painful injuries.

So what are we to do? On the one hand, we obviously want to encourage the little fella's advance into ambulation. He's a year old now and shouldn't be held back from new adventures, among which toddling about is a key one. At the same time, Sonny's strolling skills are extremely basic, yet he is launching himself into high-risk activities. Instead of confining himself into carefully negotiating a path right next to a quick-grab wall or bannister, he scuttles forth without caring for what might happen if he loses his balance. And instead of advancing at a sedate rate, ready to trim and adjust, he blazes along as though in danger of missing the Number 106 Bus.

At the end of the day, this is a false dilemma. There's actually very little we can do to retard Sonny's walkabouts, since he's not even with us for half his waking day and is terribly good at seizing any stray unsupervised moment to practise some forbidden sport. We can of course move away dangerous obstacles, check for sharp corners to blunt with babyproofing gear and keep the little fella under observation as much as possible. Beyond that, though, we'll just have to steel ourselves for the occasional typhoon of crying from a nasty trip - and tell ourselves that the little fella will quickly master the art of walking. He'll be sashaying along soon as though born to it, we might tell ourselves again and again.

At the moment though, as he blunders his way along with a fey laugh and far too much unearned confidence, that seems a long time away.

Ambushed and bitten (Brutal Babe, Part Two)

We've recently expended so much energy curbing Sonny's more destructive instincts, it was a shock to find that he had become a victim of infant violence - and that he had not held his own.

Mum had known something wasn't quite right when she arrived the other evening at the infant care centre to find a little reception committee. At its head was the parent of a older playmate, profusely apologetic. Her son, it turned out, had bitten Sonny in the arm - and quite viciously too, with a full set of teeth. The encounter left Sonny an ugly welt near the elbow, though thankfully the skin hadn't been broken (in case you're wondering why we've uploaded no photos, it's because the little fella was fidgety for the next couple of days and all the snaps were blurred).

Anyway, the staff at the centre, themselves embarrassed over their failure to prevent or at least swiftly disrupt the attack, admitted that Sonny hadn't exactly fought back like a lion after his friend's teeth clamped onto his flesh. Though he has shown great willingness to rip up our newspapers and mail, he proved a flop when a real test came: Instead of biting right back (albeit with his one half-emerged tooth), Sonny had simply commenced loud wailing. When caregivers responded, they found the attacker's jaws still affixed to our son's arm while the victim sobbed ineffectually.

Let's be clear: We are not brawling folk and would walk miles out of our way to avoid unnecessary confrontations. Still, we'd like to think that, if provoked beyond reason, we would be the sort who would counterattack with gusto. Sadly, Sonny's first real chance to prove his genetic mettle showed him a coward at heart. It's a dilemma, really: If one rears a child who is willing to stand his ground when faced with bullies, we would be setting ourselves up for much post-scuffle tidying-up. We might imagine school principals calling us in to tell us of play yard battles Sonny was embroiled in. Much fuss and bother would be saved by encouraging the little fella to always slink from a fight and prudently exit when the fur flies.

Yet would we really be proud of such a character? It isn't fashionable to seem pro-conflict in these peaceable times, when it can seem that no war is a just one and discretion is always the better part of valour. But should there be some worthy principle at stake - even if it is standing up to a schoolyard tough trying to jump a queue - surely there is honour in making a stand?
Ultimately, the appropriate answer is surely that "it all depends on the circumstances, on the winnability of a clash, the balance of principles and the personalities involved". That's anything but a clear, easy guideline - and there'll be no time to play philosophy professor when one is suddenly presented with a scenario crackling with tension.

So how will we guide Sonny on the advisability of not backing down from a fight? We'll have to wait for more of the little fella's inherent character to emerge before deciding how to mould it. If he's a natural scrapper, we'd probably try to dial things back; if, as initial indications are, he's clash-averse, some stiffening might be in order.

Really, couldn't he at least have given that other boy a bop in the nose?

Counting casualties, forging ahead

Since Sonny's tumble (see 'A frightening fall'), we've been looking back on our six and a half months of caring for the little fella and trying to compile a casualty list. The idea was to show how parenting has its cost - yet we nearly missed out on the most glaring injury of all.

The fact is that, in this span of time, we'd gotten off lightly, though Sonny managed to scratch himself near his eye ('First blood') and Pa injured his leg in a drain ('The blunderings of a frazzled dad'). As it turns out, the only lasting damage was done to poor Mac, our trusty stroller: We had to hand him over to airline staff before entering the aeroplane cabin with Sonny, and by the time we retrieved him after the flight, a good chunk had been gouged out of the material in the handle. His wheels are also now pockmarked and scarred, the legacy of our time in Pa's home town: We had trundled Mac about - Sonny strapped securely in - along rutted roads. A predisposition to veer to the left ('Stroller: Danger on the left') has become more marked, though for all that he remains a dependable carrier.

What we might take away from our bout of self-examination is a reminder that we can never be sure what sort of damage we are doing as we barge our way around the world. We might try to ensure that persons A through X are not affected by our actions, never realising that there is a Y or Z that suffers blowback. To take a broader example, in these environmentally-conscious times, we are constantly aware that our every deed has ecological consequences, from hiking the carbon count to releasing greenhouse gases.

Of course, if we dwell overmuch on potential harm, we might end up whimpering in our beds and never get any good done. To stick with child-rearing: Our child could be absorbing our every action, comment, attitude or raised eyebrow, perhaps to his detriment, but if we try and control every factor in a bid to be a perfect parent, we'd fall apart. Every course of action would be so full of potential pitfalls that we would never be able to pick an option.

This should not drive us to take refuge in being blase and simply 'doing whatever comes naturally'. Rather, in making decisions and then following through, we should consciously take into account potential fallout or collateral damage (we should always maintain civility in discourse, say, and try to keep Sonny from picking up unsavoury habits). But we can avoid paralysing excess by remembering that we have a safety valve: It is important to keep track of how the young 'un develops. Kinks that emerge, whether through some fault of our own or not, can be spotted - and can probably be put right with early intervention.

As for poor Mac - we'll probably spring for a nice handle upgrade at some point.

So are you a 'Smallist' or a 'Biggist'?

Here's something you didn't know about the weird old world we live in: Most people, and especially most parents, can be divided into Smallists and Biggists.

Take Mum. A character sketch would take in the fact that she's in her mid-30s, spends a pittance on clothes and likes the colour blue. Oh, and that she's a Smallist.

A Smallist is someone who likes his babies tiny. The smaller they are, the cuter they are - that might as well be his rallying cry. Mum already looks at Sonny - who at a week shy of six months isn't actually reaching elephantine proportions - with a certain regret. From time to time, she sighs as she recalls his proportions when he was just a few weeks old: "He was so helpless", she coos as a faraway look enters her eyes. She's all for expanding the family, and chances are the strongest attraction is the prospect of cuddling a really minute bundle all over again.

Unfortunately, we haven't a psychiatrist on staff to explain what's going on here. With such folks, if we are to hazard a guess, the maternal instinct is stoked the more fiercely when the object of attention is in greater need of succour. And all things being equal, the smaller the creature, the more in peril it is likely to be: It's probably some sort of law of the jungle, or at least a bylaw.

Pa, meanwhile, is a biggist. As you might imagine, a biggist is just someone who likes his babies big. We don't mean fat: As discussed months ago in 'So round is our baby', Pa doesn't want Sonny to be carrying too much excess weight and doesn't find chubbier infants thereby more adorable. Rather, there's something about very small babies that gets his worry juices flowing. It's a reverse of the sentiments that animate a smallist: Pa beams with greater pleasure when presented with a baby that is strapping and just the antithesis of breakable.

Chances are, the secret source of biggism is clumsiness. Parents who are more likely to trip while carrying their offspring or crash into a wall while wearing an infant shock absorber are probably equipped by Mother Nature with a strong instinct to gravitate towards the robust rather than the fragile. Truth be told, most folks are surely a mix of both biggist and smallist tendencies. These warring predilections may spill over into realms beyond babies - into preferences for entertainment, vehicles, interior designing and goodness knows what else. Utter 'cosy', for instance - while approving someone's den or compact car - and you are probably in the grip of a smallist spasm. Cry 'hearty', meaning to compliment a dinner spread, and biggism is probably raging undetected.

Where does that leave Sonny? Lucky for him - and this applies to any child, at least in the eyes of his parents - he's for the most part poised in the sweet spot between small and big: Perfectly himself and always the right size however much his physique may alter.

A better name, anyone?

This won't be a revelation on par with learning that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's twisted dad, but the truth is that Mum was pretty against Sonny to start with. Or, we ought to say, against 'Sonny'.

About the time we got this blog to its unsteady feet (and it's been reeling clumsily along ever since), we felt especially uninspired over what to call our then-two-week-old. As a stylistic ground rule, we didn't want to use either his or our own real names. Yet while 'Mum' and 'Pa' were easily arrived at, 'Sonny' - to Mum's ears, especially - landed with a ugly thud.

Perhaps there was an unconscious echo of the brutish boxer Sonny Liston. Or a secret dislike of the music of Sonny Bono. Even Pa has to admit there is something of a Yankie oafishness to the appellation. But we couldn't come up with anything better. The main restriction was that we needed something that would be immediately recognisable as a 'child-designator' to first-timer readers. So anything too exotic ('Longlegs' or 'Screamer') wouldn't fly. Consider the small pool of useable options that we were left with: 'Kiddo' was simply too infantile; 'Champ' is a ridiculous sobriquet to apply to an infant.

In the end, therefore, 'Sonny' had at least the virtue of being accurate, direct and succinct. No one would think we were referring to a pet dog, for instance. But since this blog isn't called 'Sonny's the Word', we could still effect a drastic changeover if someone can come up with a brilliant alternative. In other words, we are still trolling for possibilities. Truth be told, though, it would have to be something really spectacular, since over the months we've become rather used to 'Sonny'. It's become like the ungainly neighbour that you get attached to over time.

We even use it among ourselves now once in a while. And, oh well, it sure beats 'Kiddo'.

Message: We don't really want you

Since Mum and Pa hail from different countries - though we live in Singapore - we want Sonny to have the opportunity to decide whose passport he eventually wants to hold.

So, shortly after our child's birth, Pa rang up his embassy (the Malaysian High Commission in Singapore) to check about securing Sonny's citizenship rights. To his surprise, the officer told him that since Sonny "had been born in Singapore, and had a Singaporean mother, he might as well be a Singaporean".

This threw us for a loop. We're not claiming that anyone in our family is the next Einstein, but there was something cavalier about the way Malaysia was throwing away an overture towards retaining a future citizen.

Perhaps, though, this particular officer was simply disillusioned about her job. So what about if our son should actually want to remain a Malaysian, Pa asked somewhat testily.

The answer was another shock. First, at any point before Sonny turns 12, we should collect certain forms at the High Commission to fill out. Fair enough. But these couldn't be submitted there. Nope, we would have to return to Malaysia and travel to the administrative capital of Putrajaya to put in our documents. Ever so friendly.

After that, there would be a two year wait while, no doubt, the papers are used primarily as some official's coffee coaster. But maybe we're being too cynical, and this lengthy period is needed for the authorities to thoroughly investigate our longstanding links to international criminal syndicates and spy networks. Of which, need it be said, none exist.

Anyway, Mom recently collected a Singapore passport for Sonny so we can bring him home (to Malaysia). The application had been done over the Internet and collection was fuss-free. We refrain from any redundant comments here. Ideally, a time will come when Malaysia and Singapore will allow dual citizenship. Otherwise, Pa will continue to insist that Sonny consider staying Malaysian.

Though these early experiences hardly count as a great advertisement.

Why we turned to the professionals

It's been disturbingly quiet at home. Soft toys droop despondently. A rattle lies limp.

Sonny isn't around in the day any more. And all because we had no choice but to act.

Our son entered the world 12 weeks ago. Except for two days in hospital bathed in jaundice-fighting rays, he's been almost constantly with us. But yesterday, he entered infant care - across the road from our home, in a pleasant suite of rooms on the ground floor. He has four other babies for company.

There are two reasons why we turned him over to professionals from 7am to 7pm. First, Mum returns to work in a week: We have no one else who can step into the breach. But the fact is that Mum could have asked for more time away from work, perhaps even taking no-pay leave for a few more months. Here's where the second reason comes in. Mum was becoming more and more attached to Sonny and - more important - he was becoming dangerously used to being with us. So the longer we held off a partial transfer of caregiving responsibilities, the more it was going to discomfit and distress him when it finally went through. That seemed unnecessarily cruel.

Another argument that has been mooted for keeping Sonny away from infant care is that he's more likely to catch a bug from the other babies - not just from the four really young infants, but from older kids who are just a room away. But we've already been taking him out for little excursions - and, in any case, for how long can we keep him sequestered away in perfect health security? The care centre requires that infants that run a fever be sent home. Temperatures are supposedly taken with a thermometer every day. It's more than we do ourselves - and it's not as though Sonny is being paraded about before the general germ-breathing public anyway.

So we've bitten the bullet. There are fancier childcare operations in the general area, but the one we plumped for seemed to have the basics - decent staffing strength and no negative word-of-mouth. What more does a 12-week-old need, who must necessarily be deprived of his parents' attention? Meanwhile, Mum mopes about a bit, but she'll adjust. And Sonny? We're told he was well-behaved and didn't kick up a fuss at feeding time.

That's more than can be said for him at home most days.

The courage to compare

When our son first emerged, he seemed to us quite a special fellow: Unusually tiny, and endowed with both a particularly fulsome crop of downy hair and unique peculiarities, like a persistent leftward-twisting of his head.

Then we brought him to the paediatrician's. In quick succession, babies were spotted that were clearly smaller, or sported far more impressive natural headcoverings. There was even one, of Japanese extraction, that evinced those selfsame leftward head-twists. We were, if not crushed, certainly brought down a peg.

The moral drawn might seem to be that parents should smother the instinct to compare their offspring with those of others. We would thereby be spared the anguish of relearning, time and again, that there are always cuter, smarter, darngoshweirder little ones.

Taking that route, however, is to do more than just fail in understanding, to not grasp the more important sense in which Sonny is different from all other comers. We dismiss here an almost trite truth: That the specific bundle of multiple traits that he comes wrapped in is probably not elsewhere replicated. Sonny, in other words, isn't just unique in the way a fingerprint is. More profoundly, he is also an open timeline: He will embody a story that will develop in a way none other has - albeit, in the early years, with the multivaried input from his parents.

The follow-up poser is then: How do we ensure that we continue to put everything into providing the richest, most profound and most responsible parental output? Well, it may require us to stubbornly behave as though Sonny were utterly unique... even in the ways that we know he is not. After all, to dim the awareness that something of ours is special (whether a child, a creation of art or a business venture) may be to dial back the intensity with which we invest our energy and passion.

Against that risk, what's a little disappointment now and again?

It's not the gift that matters, it's who gives it

The basic idea is simple enough: Whoever has visited us to tickle-talk to our newborn, or has sent a present, card or red packet stuffed with money, gets a gift voucher from us - on the occasion of Sonny's first month in the world - entitling him or her to a cake.

But here's the moral dilemma, if you want to call it that: Who should actually be understood to be despatching the voucher? Should it be from us, the parents - thanking the receiver for generous intentions? Or should it be from our son himself (by proxy, admittedly), in his first grateful communique to a well-wisher? Here's what it come down to. We've already set up a bank account where all cash gifts for our son will go; fortune has inflated it gratifyingly. So what we're effectively trying to decide is whether to deduct the cost of the gift vouchers from his nascent savings, or pay it out of our adult pockets.

It's all symbolic anyway, some might sniff. But that's precisely the point: In these matters - and how momentous is birth, and is it not as personally epochal as marriage, or death? - it's the symbolism that counts. We can obviously afford to leave Sonny's little hoard alone, and preen as the happy parents we are. Yet - were he only able to grasp what is going on here - wouldn't he be keen to speak for himself, and make it his own 'Thank you for coming to see me, or giving me something, though I be no more than a pint-sized burbling bundle?'

Surely, he has the right to make that statement, declaring it (via his humbled parents) to the very cosmos itself.