"All adults do is eat!"

"Hello. This is Sonny. My parents spend a lot of time bashing away at this computer (and ignoring me, as if I wouldn't notice it), so I am going to give it a try too while they are away at work. They seem to think that people are actually reading their thoughts regarding me, though no one ever asks for my feedback. Manifestly unfair: I may only be five months and two weeks old, but I ought to be consulted.

"So let me tell you, readers of my parents' blog, what irks me most about living with 'Mum' and 'Pa' (I'll tell you a secret: They have proper names too, just like mine isn't really 'Sonny'). These parents of mine are pigs. I know from the Farmhouse books they read to me that pigs have curly tails, which my parents don't display. But pigs are also said to be very fond of eating, and let me tell you, my parents are really into that.

"They have three square sit-down meals, during which they polish off a confusing mix of different objects of inconsistent colours and shapes and smells. Horrible. My parents are also always snacking. Even late at night, when Pa gets home from work, the two of them will sit down and snaffle biscuits and drink that nasty concoction called 'coffee'. Give me milk any day. Actually, I do get milk every day. But anyway, whenever my parents eat, they will go through this silly ritual exchange: First, Pa will say, "You are eating as much as me these days". Then Mum will look very defensive and say, 'Well, I am eating for two now". I'm not sure what it means, but she will look at me briefly when she says that. Let me tell you, if I ate even half as much as either of them did, I am sure I would burst. My parents seem to think that I am going to be their size some day and be as greedy as them, but I find this very hard to believe. I don't want to believe it. I'm quite happy as I am, thank you. I'm comfortable with my body.

"All I drink is milk. Well, that is not quite right, since Mum has recently been feeding me a few mouthfuls of cereal (not directly from her mouth, but using a 'spoon'). The adults made a big deal of my consuming it and seem to think it was a major occasion. I am surprised they did not put up balloons and have a party. Parents just don't make much sense: The cereal was mixed in milk, and was so diluted it was almost milky. So what was the big deal? Now, if they had tried to feed me one of those chicken drumsticks, I would have shown them how well I can wriggle and choke. They think I can sometimes be what they call 'a handful' (which is also ridiculous since I am a lot bigger than anyone's hand, unless there are some giant adults around somewhere that I haven't met), but I've been going easy on them. They are quite useful to have around, after all. I can't seem to be able to move around very well on my own.

"Anyway, I am sure adults do other more productive things too. Besides eat, that is. And talk. Maybe I'll tell you about my discoveries by and by. Thank you for your attention. You may go and eat some more now."

Yours sincerely,
Sonny

Take your time to talk, kiddo

Sonny likes to chat.

Since he's not yet six months old, he's obviously not yammering away in any language that you or I can comprehend. But when the mood is upon him, he will yip, yap and yodel away, at times even pausing as though awaiting a response from us. Generally, the little fella will be worrying away at some toy or activity (like trying to get himself closer to a tasty morsel, like a piano chair leg) when he gets voluble. He spends quite a bit of his time closely observing adults in action, so maybe he's picked up on the peculiar human habit of conversing.

We're not necessarily overwhelmed with joy at the little fella's early-onset chattiness. For perhaps it means that he's someone who will want to make his way in the world trading on his verbal skills, which might mean a career as a defence lawyer, travelling salesman or even (if he did something really wicked in his past life) a politician. This last thought, of course, is occasioned by the looming second debate between US presidential candidates John McCain and Barack Obama, which is exactly 48 hours away as I type these words. The two White House hopefuls will be pounding at each other with torrents of words, buffing up their own policy ideas, casting the other side in the worst possible light and otherwise using language as a fighter pilot uses his missiles, or samurai warrior his sword.

There's nothing dishonourable about such professions, at least not in the abstract. Still, to use words is often to misuse and manipulate them, and Sonny had better have some pretty stiff moral fibre woven into his character if he is to be immersing himself in these waters. Truth be told, however, our biggest concern about our potentially mouthy son is more parochial: He'd be a major annoyance in the near future. Sure, every child is going to have roughly half a million questions to ask about everything and its sister. But now imagine such a creature armed with smart-alec rebuttals to every answer and clever contradictions to place before every parental command.

Of course, we're going to be told that we've just described every five-year-old ever born. If that be our fate, we can only practice smiling through gritted teeth. But we really don't need to be reminded of our impending fate every day, as Sonny burbles away oh-so adorably.

When Mum's a bad influence

There's no doubting it any more: it's not good for Mum to be around our son.

All right, even if we're exaggerating for dramatic effect, this might sound like a sacrilegious sentiment to voice, unless talking about deadbeat parent-types who soak themselves in alcohol each night or abuse their children. Mum, it need not be said, does not fall into this category. But we've noticed that Sonny, who is roughly a fortnight short of being six months old, becomes distinctly harder to handle once she floats into the picture.

Just today, for instance, Sonny was sitting placidly in the tub being washed by Pa. He was pensive, contemplating his toes and how the soapy bubbles obscured different toes in turn (well, this is what you might call a creative reconstruction of the little fella's thoughts). Then Mum darkened the doorway. "How is it that he's always thrashing about whenever I bathe him, but so quiet now?" she said a tad too loudly. Sonny perked up and promptly began to kick at the water, sending spray over the side of the tub (and onto Pa's clothes). Sensing a hostile glare, Mum scuttled off - and Sonny subsided to his customary calm.

Now, you might say this account is unfair to Mum, as Sonny was probably just expressing joy at her presence. Or perhaps it was mere coincidence, you whine, that she was in the room when the young 'un got frisky. Sadly, however, there's a definite pattern that can be discerned: Whether it's an increased propensity to suck at his thumb (and toes) or a tendency to bawl in hopes of eliciting sympathy, Sonny is likelier to misbehave when Mum is present.

On, then, to the 'his/her' preferred explanation segment. Mum's is that Pa is what you might call, to use technical language, a wicked monster who barks at Sonny in such threatening tones that the poor mite is too terrified in his presence to utter much more than a peep. Pa suggests that Mum is indulging Sonny, fuelling a childish cunning that already knows how best to draw fawning attention from susceptible adults. In grander terms, then, one might even see here opposing worldviews: Pa's a darker vision in which we must perpetually avoid being taken advantage of, set against Mum's willingness to embrace a lovey-dovier, everyone's-an-angel universe.

Of course, there's nothing earth-shattering about the situation. Children have been trying to play one parent off against the other since time immemorial. We'll just make sure we firm up a common front in time for when his demands accelerate. As they surely will.

How to inherit a nose nightmare

Parents always hope their children will inherit their best characteristics. For our part, we aren't conceited enough to think that Sonny stands to gain much from us, but we can certainly wish that he is spared some of our worse features. Which is why Pa had a mild fit when he first met Ivy the Fan.

Ivy is a purple and plastic, battery-powered fan that comes with a clip to be fastened to the hood of Sonny's stroller. Mum's idea was to provide some better-quality air circulation for when the little fella is on the move. Pa, however, has a great physical weakness: His nose. It has a tendency to commence sniffling with a vengeance once the air currents around it get too robust. Once an old-style tropical fan or (horrors) modern air-conditioning is added into the mix, Pa's nose can be reliably expected to sound off, then begin overflowing embarrassingly.

It remains to see whether indiscriminate exposure to aggressive drafts will firmly implant in Sonny's nose the great weakness with his father's. The medical case for such a worry could well be highly suspect, but Pa's struggles over the years with his nose has left him jumpy: At various times, doctors have fingered a crooked bone, iffy sinuses and a lack of fitness. So, with Sonny, Pa is always ensuring that the little fella is sufficiently wrapped up, out of any stiff drafts and with socks or long pants deployed if the air-conditioning is on.

For all that, Sonny's nose is showing ominous signs of being an eeny-meeny clone of his father's. He is often to be found snuffling energetically, though it doesn't seem to sour his mood or cramp his style. With no sign that he has recognised a potential enemy, he spends quite a bit of time staring at Ivy the fan when it's switched on, though it's probably because of the little lights that come on as the blades whirl. Careful observation has revealed no link between Ivy's use and any accelerated nose activity.

Still, perhaps having to come to terms with an inherited affliction like a chronically overflowing nose will help build Sonny's character. A grain of sand in an oyster is what brings about a pearl, as they say. Though a pearl doesn't sniffle.

The magical Good-Lah policy

We're going to sound like crazy insurance agents at first, but bear with us while we tell you about a policy that keeps reaping dividends.

We're referring to a mental policy, and it got its start (ridiculous as it may sound) one day at a casino. There we were, throwing away our hard-earned cents at an activity that involved guessing whether the next card in a face-down deck was going to come up red or black. If we guessed red, but black came up, we'd lose our bet. Red, and we doubled our (pitiful) stake. Anyway, we got into the habit of chorusing, "Good lah" whenever the wrong colour came up ('Good lah' being the endearing, Malaysian-accented equivalent of 'Jolly good'). The tenuous logic behind the forced merriment was that, given the law of averages, so long as we kept betting red, each time black came up made it the more likely that red would be next up.

We never did make much money. For one thing, the game didn't use an actual deck of cards at all, but rather an enormous computer-generated stack of decks, which meant that - for all practical intents and purposes - the probabilities accompanying each red-or-black choice were always 50-50 (those who could explain this more succinctly, preferably using easy-to-understand examples, are welcome to do so). But adopting the Good-Lah policy is easily translated into a broader attitude towards life in general: It simply means that, when something comes along that seems to have negative consequences, we may take it as something likely to lead to a positive outcome down the line, so long as we stay the course.

Yesterday, for instance, saw an instance of Good-Lah in action. Our Sonny has been driving us to distraction by his insistence on gumming down on anything he can get his hands on (as reported in 'Mad mouth alert'). No win there, if this was Fate dealing the cards. But we've also been feeling rather anxious over introducing non-milk foods into Sonny's diet. We'd heard of titanic struggles in which the baby energetically spewed the proffered vittles in sundry directions. So we were gearing up with bib and cloths for our first try-out. But as it turned out, Sonny's insistence on chomping everything and anything made the whole process preposterously easy. We spooned up some cereal and he would willingly take it in his mouth. A twist or two of the spoon, as he munched away, and it was mission accomplished. Good-Lah indeed.

Of course, the more cunning (or perhaps just pessimistic) reader will note a corollary of this policy: It's just as likely that, a few turns down life's road, Sonny's rapid acceptance of solid food might lead to some unwanted outcome: Suppose he develops an insatiable appetite and goes from plump to obese before our horrified eyes. To keep the policy viable, therefore, we'd have to keep extending the negative-to-positive scenario into infinity (eg Sonny gets so fat, he learns the joys of exercising, but then...). At some point, we seem to be reduced to just saying that you can never be sure what's going to come up next. It's all about adopting a suitable attitude and enjoying the ride.

Good-Lah. Or make that good enough.