Who's car-crazy, buddy?

Toddlers are supposed to get overwhelmingly curious fairly early on, but our experience with our particular edition is that he gets fixated about certain categories of objects.

Like cars. And cars. Oh, and cars. The little fella will ignore the garishly-dressed gorilla screaming his name in his ear (we could of course here be merely drawing a less-than-flattering verbal portrait of his father), yet be instantly transfixed by a whispered mention of 'car' at the other end of the room. He'll scamper in that direction, shoving aside anything or anyone that may be in the way, and gibber 'Car, car' as he approaches the approximate location.

In fact, these days, pretty much the only surefire way of distracting him, or grabbing his attention, is to claim that a vehicle is passing our windows or entering the compound. His grandmother is especially skilled at enthusiastically declaring "Hey, look at the big car" with total conviction. You can sometimes play the same trick by invoking "Airplane!", except Sonny is rather scared of aircraft and will sometimes be seized with terror when one is too boisterously reported.

Anyway, one is led to wonder why children - and, or so we are conventionally told, boys especially - develop an early fascination with cars. Mum and Pa can't remember any fixations from their toddlerhoods, but then again they can't remember much of that period of their lives. Maybe it's that motorised rumble, or the way cars zip along enticingly with the sun glinting off the hubcaps and illuminating all those curves. Someone who can only crawl along at 3 miles an hour, or at best totter precariously forward at double that speed (allowing for the odd tumble and slip) is perhaps especially mesmerised by how cars can glide smoothly on their way, accelerating as needed with utter ease.

This is something that many adult would understand, of course. Many of us are all but defined by the extent to which we are in thrall of things, structures or people that are more powerful, stronger or more impressive than we are - so that we are consumed by envy or hunger, and are always seeking an extra glimpse, a closer peek and a fuller view. Looked at from this perspective, a child's car-craziness takes on a more sinister aspect. It begins to sound like a symptom of a character flaw, a covetousness that seeks power or gain to the exclusion of virtue.

We ought to hope, therefore, that Sonny takes a greater interest in the humble ox-cart, for instance, or becomes entranced by the mere mention of a bicycle. Perhaps that would signal a humbler worldview, less grandiose dreams and a healthier mental state.

Panicking too soon won't stave off swine flu

Something very akin to panic is sweeping much of the world as a mixed-bag strain of swine flu spreads from Mexico outwards.

Mum and Pa have been trying to keep things in perspective, by telling ourselves
(a) there are no confirmed cases yet in our neck of the woods
(b) despite a climbing death toll in Mexico, no cases outside that country have resulted in deaths
(c) we can't live our lives in terror anyway, since we could also be run over by a bus tomorrow.

Nonetheless, we are exhaustively scrutinising news reports as a planned two-day trip to Malaysia next week draws near. If there are incidents of infection along our travel route or at our intended destination, we might decide to pull the plug, absorb the cost of already-booked tickets and rooms - and just play safe.

People, after all, aren't always the most rational of creatures and we're as human as the next Joe. Applying Reason only gets you so far, and then instinct, or the fear factor, or the unconscious exerts its own insidious pull. Yet in other things, this fact shows itself in less than chilling ways. For instance, though every parent knows that his child is not likely to be much more than just averagely adorable, he is also typically convinced that Junior is the cutest critter the species has ever produced. Deny it if you will, but that sort of sentiment festers in virtually all mothers and fathers.

It is therefore probably true that, to the extent to which some phenomenon strikes close to our own lives or our near-and-dear, the sway of Logic is that much more likely to falter. No wonder, then, that growing concern over swine flu - however overblown if assessed with cold rationality - is pulsing as we contemplate the possibility of our own clan being struck down. Of course, if we don't destabilise other people's lives, we are free to overreact as we wish - whether it is by avoiding pork (even though there is absolutely no evidence that diet is relevant to the outbreak) or locking ourselves in our homes. Should we have especially vulnerable souls under our care, we are perhaps more justified in building in an additional margin of safety: Why venture into large crowds for no reason, say, if there have been known swine-flu cases in your town? But if worry-wartism extends to hunkering down with tinned food at home, even though no one within thousands of miles has fallen sick yet, absurdity is surely knocking on your doorstep.

Besides, one is led to finally note, if we work ourselves into such a frenzy of fear even when the scourge is not yet in sight, how are we supposed to react if it does emerge? Are we then more likely to become dangerously unreasonable, causing harm to others as we cross the line into utter paranoia? One hopes not.

The bare facts about this outbreak are frightening enough.

Onset of our limpet mine

In wars of yore, a deadly weapon against ships was the limpet mine, which would be deployed by elite commandos. They would swim under a hull and deploy a magnetised explosive charge that would clang onto the maritime metal, clinging on like a malevolent barnacle until the inevitable 'ka-boom'.

These last couple of days, our own 11-month-old limpet mine has been attaching itself to us with a ferocious obstinacy. He's been stuck at home with us (or both of his grandmothers, who rode to the rescue) after he was felled by a nasty virus and had to struggle with a scarily persistent fever. Since then, whenever awake, the little fella can't seem to go 10 minutes on his own before he'll be scuttling along with many a tearful peep, seeking an adult embrace. Not that he used to be stand-offish, but he was never so needy till now, even in previous bouts with illness.

At work, Pa's been preoccupied with how the economic crisis has affected country after country, so the little fella's behaviour has reminded him of the way some populations react. When all is well and the economy is humming along merrily, these folks want their government to leave them well alone so they can go about their own business. But when a financial contagion strikes, they go all limpet-miney and insist on a powerful saving hug from Big Brother, demanding bail-outs, stimulus packages and what have you.

Of course, we know that a limpet mine is so designed that failing to break its grim embrace will be followed in short order by a massive explosion and a speedy one-way visit to the bottom of the sea. Similarly, expecting the government to be an all-powerful life preserver - somehow counteracting problems brought on by unwise economic activity, business foolishness and so forth - can only end in tears. A culture of dependency is swiftly bred, and fiscal irresponsibility could easily take hold.

In our case, Sonny's fever broke yesterday and a fierce rash surfaced in its wake. Seems he had either measles or what is called 'false measles', which may linger for anything from three to seven days. Presumably he can be forgiven for being especially needy - so he's been allowed more than his usual quota of hugs. But once he's well on the road to recovery, the pampering will cease. Which, hopefully, is what will happen with the world's own embrace of big-government rescues.

Making the desert bloom and other absurdities

Our posting is going to be rather scatter-shot over the next fortnight or so, as we are presently in the arid sandlands of Arabia, visiting Pa's brother and his little brood.

Wait, did we say 'arid'?

If you fly into Dubai or Abu Dhabi, and hug the coast, you might believe that all this talk about 'the deserts of the Middle East' is so much hokum dreamt up by racist propagadists. Foliage blooms in wild profusion, trees hug the broad avenues and fountains leap in piazzas and at random traffic roundabouts. Look closer, however (or be alerted by your host, as we were), and you'll realise that a grand con is being perpetrated. A hidden network of pipes and sprinklers delivers water to keep all that greenery from promptly browning. Venture further into the interior, away from the arterial roads that are kept lovingly lush, and the desert sands assert their rightful claim to the terrain.

There are parents we know, as it happens, who are operating very much the same confidence game. It's all about projecting a front, erecting a false facade that suggests you are not quite what you really are. But there's a distinction that bears making. The folks in this part of the world have money oozing out their follicles: The gulf states of Arabia earn so much from oil that they can make vast financial investments yet be left with enough play money to tart up their cities, prettify their environment and just darn shout their wealth to anyone within hearing distance. It's not subtle - but there's no rule anywhere that says everyone should be discreet about splashing their money about.

With plenty of parents, similarly, stocking up on brand-name kidswear, piles of extravagant toys and all the rest could well be a way of camouflaging a certain poverty of the spirit; neglect is dressed up as 'earning enough to keep the family in provender' and lack of self respect shows itself in displays of ersatz plenty. In its own way, it could be a little morally distressing, but on the other hand there's no doubt that such monied Mas and Pas possess fat enough pocketbooks.

There are those parents, however, who aren't really all that well-off, but who are seduced by the displays of material comfort by others into thinking that they are somehow trapped in some essential race to keep up with the Joneses. Instead of making sensible provision for the future, they spend more than they should to keep their offspring excessively clad and equipped. It's transparently short-term thinking, but not thereby unheard-of. And who should we blame, is the obvious follow-on question? Those whose initial expression of wealth ignited the silly comparative race to begin with or those who should have known better than to join in?

Luckily, those of us who may observe at a distance, with perhaps wry expressions and hopefully with a little compassion, are at no obligation to ladle out guilty verdicts. The fountains are pretty over here, the greenery is easy on the eye. We're not paying for it - but in some parts of the world, the grand monuments and impressive sights are literally squeezed from the weak, voiceless and oppressed.

Going a little crazy is good for you

The other day, we were flailing from shop to shop in Singapore's Chinatown district, hunting with growing desperation for ancient attire.

Chinese New Year is almost upon us, and Mum had decided it would be wildly amusing to dress up both Sonny and his cousin (older by roughly 13 months) in flowing robes from China's imperial era. Never mind that the clothes would be utterly impractical for ordinary use and would likely be worn only a couple of times. The hilarity would be worth the expense - plus, it would be a fitting way to welcome in the Year of the Ox.

All of which goes to show that, sometimes, we all go a little barmy and do ridiculous things. We never did find garb that would both fit the little ones and "look right", but that's neither here nor there. A certain aptitude for the absurd, one would argue, would seem to be an absolute prerequisite to parenting: It comes, really, as a needed release from the futility of trying to impose one's will on a wailing almost-nine-month-old, or to keep insanity at bay as the orderliness of the household is fatally compromised by his rampaging curiosity.

Yet there's a broader aspect to this. Life in general can throw up nasty surprises and unexpected reverses. And these can best be borne with an eye to the absurd. In this time of economic hardship, as jobs vanish like the twinkling of exploding stars and investment portfolios melt like candles in the sun, taking things too seriously is liable to lead to a breakdown and a visit to a shrink. Bashing yourself against the walls thrown up by fate might, in other words, result in the forced application of many rolls of bandages and multiple ice packs. Yet the parent who has tried for two months straight to convince his infant not to gobble up those smelly slippers will have learnt a thing or two about how some things are just beyond us. And he would also probably have come to laugh at that fact - or else to generate good humour by his own doings. In any case, amusement - bitter, perhaps - can usually be found in the core of any scenario: Sonny biting blissfully into Pa's footwear - having eluded parental patrols and umpteenth warnings - presents a madly comic aspect to any observer not blind to it.

Should anyone be in need of advice, then, for what should be a challenging year, "Go ahead and be silly once in a while" would pass for a decent serving. One doesn't need to have a child by way of a prop - though it sure makes things a heck of a lot easier: Anyone can hurtle down a busy street trying to imitate a plane trying to take off, for instance. Not that one should take complete leave of one's senses or abdicate our responsibilities entirely.

We're talking controlled doses of nuttiness, by way of a corrective to excessive sombreness.

Mini-swimmer makes debut

Yesterday, we finally got around to slipping Sonny into a pair of special diaper trunks and carrying him down to the infant pool at our condo. We'd heard that babies were pool-safe once they hit the six-month mark (with unceasing supervision, of course), but we'd dallied for a month and half before literally taking the plunge.

It turned out to be anticlimactic. True, he didn't take fright in a dramatic manner, rejecting the water or making a big show of disappearing beneath the (mini-) waves with a piteous splutter. But neither that he show early promise of being a natural born swimmer. Mainly, propped up by one of his parents, Sonny just peered about rather lackadaisically, uttering not a peep as he waited for us to propel him from one end of the pool to the other - a matter of a few strides, given how small the pool is. It wasn't the warmest of days, and even Mum was muttering something about being a tad cold, but Sonny seemed unbothered. He just wasn't very engaged: An older boy, playing with a plastic ball under the close supervision of a maid, bounced the ball his way once. The little fella majestically ignored the overture of friendship, and we parents had to toss the ball back.

Overall, Pa figures that Sonny just took the pool to be a rather larger version of the tub in which he takes his baths, and in which his interaction is restricted to gnawing at whichever small toy is offered to him. Accustomed to the narrow boundaries of bath time, he showed no interest in taking advantage of the opportunities offered by a broadened scope of potential play. And that, surely, is a lesson that goes beyond babydom: We are trained to play or work in a certain manner, and - through intellectual laziness more than particular attachment to that activity - fail to strike out and expand the playbook (or workbook) when Chance opens the door.

We'll be encouraging Sonny to partake in water play again, and no doubt he'll come to enjoy his time in the pool - even as we inculcate in him the safety rules and swimming skills that will allow him to participate with little fear of disaster. Of course, in the grander scheme of things, we won't always have a parental figure on hand to act as guide and to reinforce the possibilities inherent in a fresh situation: It'll be up to us to stay alert and ready to blaze a new trail.

Efficiency is in rolling as well as walking

Sonny is well and truly into crawling now (we've been steeling ourselves for this, as blogged about in 'Preparing for Bandit Sonny'), except he does a lot rolling sideways too. It all adds up to a unique approach that looks wildly inefficient: Instead of plodding from Point A to Point B, the little fella will roll leftward sort of in Point B's direction, then crawl towards it, than roll rightward... you get the general idea.

The thing is, after some mental calculation and much bemused observation, we've realised that this uncoordinated cross-training routine gets Sonny places remarkably quickly. His knees-and-hands crawling isn't yet a very refined affair: Loads of energy is expended so that, if the distance to be traversed is more than half a metre or so, he needs to rest up and recharge along the way. On the other hand, this rolling business doesn't tire him at all: After the briefest of moments to angle his body, he just tips over and barrels along. He doesn't get him anywhere in a straight line, of course, since it's hard to control the trajectory in mid-roll, but he gains so much mileage, the required repositioning is worth it.

Right there, if you think about it, is a lesson for all of us on how the most effective way of reaching a given goal doesn't necessarily mean picking the most direct route. To take something as innocuous as gaining information from someone (something Mum and Pa did a lot of as journalists): Barging right up and saying, "Hi, we'd like to know x about p" is seldom the best way to go about it, though it saves on saliva. You have to put your mark at ease - perhaps offering some information yourself as a gesture of good faith - before phrasing things to avoid setting off landmines.

Of course, after a quick roll and before reorienting himself, Sonny often finds himself faced with something new and intriguing that he hadn't been aiming for to start with. This not infrequently captures his interest, so that his original goal is ignored. This, too, is par for the course in the adult world - and not necessarily a bad thing. 'Tunnel vision' is the phrase we use for when we become so focused on a particular objective, we fail to notice anything else around us. It is not unhealthy for us to be presented from time to time with possible deviations from the plan. If the original goal was as important as all that, we'd get round to it eventually, perhaps after a brief delay. But the potential new diversions could well enrich our journey. They might even equip us to better handle that goal, when we get to it.

Ahoy, Mr Communist: Selfishness starts young

The other day, a friend gave Sonny a pack of four little bath toys: Miniature animals that float and can be used to squirt water. Mum, sniggering, handed them over to the our five-month-old to see what he would make of them. In truth, she expected him to just try and eat them, since his standard greeting - extended towards all surfaces, people and items - is to get gummin'.

Sonny, however, gathered Little Cow, Little Frog, Little Pig and Little Hen to himself, all but lying on top of them before beginning to fiddle with them. Mum's jaws dropped. Apparently, some primitive notion of ownership was at work: The little fella was establishing boundaries of sorts, marking the toys out as 'his' before proceeding to explore (and, sure enough, chomp away).

Unreconstructed communists or anyone with an abiding hatred for the concept of private property might be hopping mad by now. But as far as we can tell, we had never given Sonny the impression that any part of the reality he was encountering was somehow his to own. We'd shown him around our little flat, introduced him to Mac the stroller and so on, but only as aspects of the broader world that he would be interacting with more or less regularly. His apparent identification of certain items as 'within his realm of control' seems entirely instinctive.

Is this a body blow to Marxism? Not really, since there are lots of 'social' arguments for why private property might be considered a great evil, on account of its encouraging wickedly selfish behaviour or dividing person from person so as to create unfortunate dichotomies. But the suggestion that common ownership is the natural way of things (prior to flawed individuals claiming specific things) surely takes a knock. Not to build too much upon the actions of an infant, but it would seem we are hard-wired, genetically, to 'own stuff'. Or so we might interpret Sonny's unprompted reaction to the squirt animals.

Naturally, more observation is required. We'll be leaving the toys about in various configurations, apparently haphazard but deliberately placed, to see whether a change in positioning disrupts Sonny's in-gathering predilections. Perhaps he will only 'claim' those items closest to himself, or only clusters of objects rather than individual items (and what on earth would that tell us, one wonders). And maybe timing is critical too: After a good meal, say, he might desultorily fiddle with objects that - when hungry - he automatically harvests.

It could be we're just being a tad silly. But why deprive us of our adult fun? Don't be selfish now.

An unlikely pack of liars

There are many sorts of liars: Uninhibited truth-benders, reluctant fibbers and cautious white-lie purveyors. Since the addition to our family, however, we've been introduced to a whole new category: The sudden-switchers.

Who are these folks? In our case, they are the acquaintances or relatives who - very early on - warned us ominously never to give in to a baby's bawling. "Let the young fella cry. If you pick him up at the first sob, you'll never get a moment's peace", went one fairly typical admonition. The impression from these early encounters was that we'd somehow gathered a group of hard-hearted disciplinarians for family and friends, who preached a stern strain of parenting drawn from military-school-type manuals.

But a strange thing happened as the weeks passed, leaving Sonny a fortnight shy of his sixth month. All these 'let-'im-learn toughies have all become complete pushovers. All Sonny needs do is to whimper and we'll be urgently told to comfort and cuddle. When Pa ties the young fella up like a package at the fish market, to keep him from sucking his thumb, some of these tough guys have been known to break down in tears at the "inhumane treatment". Even when it comes to Sonny dropping off to sleep, we're being told we ought to rock him and soothe him till he drifts away to la-la-land. This, from people who were urging that the baby be dumped in a cot in the next room, so he can cry and learn to "sleep on his own".

Since it's unlikely these folks had a mass change of heart, we have to assume that they were peddling a line they didn't really believe in. Once confronted with its logical consequences, they then broke down and switched camps. In a way, this is symptomatic of a broader tendency in human beings: To boldly proclaim adherence to a unyielding creed, then crumple once the sacrifices required become more apparent. In this case, to be fair, it is people's kindliest tendencies that are to blame: They can't take it when they see an infant apparently suffering.

It was a lot easier when discipline was just an abstract principle.

Parents, showing off and the Olympics

The Olympic Games kicked off last night, so you'll be reading lots of boilerplate about how the sporting spirit will be raging and fair play will be celebrated.

We're not saying that's all a load of crock. But if we look at how some parents love to parade their children in name-brand finery, it'd be easy to understand how showing off is a big part of what this 'festival of sport' is actually about.

China, the hosts this time round, wants the whole world to know that it has arrived on the global stage and can stand tall in the company of giants. How better to do that than by staging a fiesta long on spectacle (and yesterday night's opening ceremony was indeed spectacular) and supreme efficiency? Look at our gleaming facilities, goes the message. Marvel at how far we're willing to go to make sure everything runs like clockwork. It hasn't been easy for the Chinese, who've had to contend with natural disaster and air pollution. They've banned drivers from driving every other day - among other measures to tamp down smog - and even rejigged working hours to tame traffic.

Is there anything wrong with any of this? Well, let's look at the parental parallel. Parents can show off in all sorts of ways. They could present to the world children who are wonderfully well-behaved, intelligent and sensitive to the needs of others. What marvellous child-rearing nous, we are moved to declare. Nobody would really mind, then, if pride figured in the parents' motivations: The child ultimately benefits. But suppose the parents tricked Junior out in the most expensive of attire, lavished him with toys and gadgets and otherwise saw that he more than wanted for nothing. If this is the extent of their showing off, the obvious difference here is, of course, is that the children don't necessarily benefit from such star treatment. They don't need fancy togs or the latest gewgaws to do well. Indeed, it might fray their moral fibre and weaken them mentally - even as their parents derive short-term joy from out-glamming their competitors.

All this applies, then, to the Olympics. If, at the end of the day, the Olympic frenzy throws up net benefits to the Chinese people, provides joy to millions and encourages the growth of sportsmanship, why should we judge too harshly? Sure, there's the politicking: The argument is that somehow, by celebrating the Olympics, we are giving legitimacy to the suppression of the Tibetans and authoritarian rule. But just as we should not blame children for the alleged sins of their parents, we shouldn't import too much of the calculations of politics into the striving of honest sportsmen.

Let them show off their sporting skills!

Coffee shop wisdom

Now that we have a stroller in which to deposit Sonny while we eat, we've been sallying out regularly to the nearby cluster of coffee shops. All the establishments are a few minutes' easy stroll apart. They offer pretty much the same sort of food and drink and none is really a culinary discovery worth writing home about. Yet certain ones among them are popular, drawing a steady clientele from morning through till the wee hours of the morning. Others are gloomily quiet and are lucky to have a sprinkling of customers.

What makes one place a success and not another? We can't really put a finger on a solid explanation. One would have to say, after due deliberation, that the capriciousness of fate is in play. More people, perhaps, are in the habit of going to eatery A than to eatery B, but there might not ultimately be a good reason why.

Quite the wrong conclusion to draw from this thought, however, is that 'Life is reducible to a lottery' and allied sentiments. For pointing to fate usually works best as a backward-looking indicator. When it comes to predicting future conditions, the interjection of individual effort, initiative and ingenuity can modify, if not utterly reverse, the initial verdict of chance.

To stick with our coffee shops: In a relatively short time, we'll probably have to start plumping Sonny down into a high chair so he can half-eat and half-fling his food. Now, the provision of high chairs is critically neglected amongst our cluster of coffee shops. If, tomorrow, one of the shops were to go out and buy a few brightly-coloured chairs, and have that fact advertised, we're betting that this would draw a respectable stream of with-young-child customers.

Let's take another example of how fate can be trumped by human action. It's become de rigeur for coffee shops to mount large TV screens on brackets and show soap operas or football matches. Were any of the shops to refuse to install these electronic facilities, they would probably experience a haemorrhage of customers - one that would be very poorly explained indeed by sole reference to 'sheer luck'.

In the same way, Sonny's disposition, his bents and natural talents (if any) are to an extent the gift of the gods. Fate, if you like, casts her vote here. But that's just to look backward. If we orient our thinking to the future, there would be an endless number of things we could do to boost or discourage certain proclivities, cultivate new ones and instil good mental habits.

Ultimately, to think in this manner is the only option if we are to behave as though our personal effort in any field is to count for something. Practically speaking, it's doubtful whether anyone really believes that fate absolutely seals the score in most affairs. But once we allow fortune too much play in our assessment of a situation, it's likely to sap enthusiasm and affect energy levels.


We wouldn't want that. Let's keep fate in its place.

They steal skulls over there

There are thieves, there are robbers - and then there are the skull stealers.

No, we're not thinking of the recent Indiana Jones movie, which featured an outsized crystal skull along with a lot of hokum about aliens and psychic rays and whatnot. Rather, the Associated Press recently reported on a ring of grisly crooks who would invade cemeteries in the dead of night and dig up graves in order to retrieve skulls and femurs, for US$620 per head (literally). The skulls would be either ground into powder for various potions or used in bizarre initiation rites. Anyway, the police got wise to the operation after people began complaining about relatives' graves being violated: A couple of days ago, eight men were nabbed and a nice stash of human remains recovered.

All this happened in Gabon, in central Africa.

Careful now. What was your response when we fed in that last fact? Was it something along the lines of 'Well, that's just the sort of thing we can expect in the Dark Continent'? If so, you are in danger of failing the little test that we've sneakily set up. For isn't there something just a little bit presumptuous about dividing people up into 'ordinary folks like ourselves' and 'the more primitive lot over there'? No, it's not likely you thought about it in such terms. But that's what it comes down to, surely?

Mind you, we're as prone as anyone else in the so-called developed world to falling into this mental trap. And though our child-rearing adventure has only completed its 13th week, we are on guard - in the hope of transmitting as few of our unfair mental colourings to Sonny as possible. It won't be easy: Skullduggery, so to speak, was only an example. We have a whole soup of prejudices swimming about in the murk of our minds: Hidden bents towards prejudging younger/ older folk, richer/ poorer people, overachievers/ underachievers and Heaven knows who else. Again, we're not carrying about fully-formed theoretical positions towards whole classes of people. It's about broad attitudes that emerge in specific cases - though it's precisely in specific cases that we should be chary of applying generalisations.

By the way, it's no excuse to say that some of our prejudices can be tied to truths. It could well be that a global headcount would show that the world's heaviest concentration of skull-potion drinkers is to be found in central Africa (though it might also be a borough of Queens, for all we know). But when we say something like, 'Well, that's what one would expect', we're really importing a whole web of sentiments and dismissive attitudes. And eventually, these affect what we think about more urgent matters, such as the point of directing aid to Africa, say, or intervening in vicious civil wars, or even the character of immigrants from a given part of the world.

Still, we admit to wondering what one of these skull cocktails would taste like...

Reaching out can be hard to do

At fast food outlets and an increasing number of eateries, self-service is the order of the day. You stand at the counter, indicate your preference and then extend your own arm to collect your food. No more sitting in splendour at your table, awaiting a waiter's assistance.

Well, we're waiting for Sonny to begin his first steps towards this self-service culture. And we're really talking baby steps here. You might think that it's instinctive - indeed, automatic - for us to reach out for something that we find interesting, or want to grasp. But not for Sonny. Suppose he's hungry and he detects the approach of Mum the milk dispenser. Well, the young fella might salivate. He might make cooing sounds. He might even flap his arms about frantically - but it would be in a way that's about as directed as a rocker's long hair whirling crazily around in mid-concert. Quite random. Many a time, something will arrest Sonny's attention: Someone's face, say, or a colourful picture. He'll gaze and gaze - but never will he reach out.

At times, mind you, he can seem to be getting the idea. Consider, as Mum points out, his growing addiction to sucking his thumb (despite our best efforts to foil him, as described in 'Training our one-armed baby'). You might think that if he knows enough to aim his fingers and jam them into his mouth, this must be proof of directed reaching of some kind. If so, however, it certainly hasn't translated into any other sphere of behaviour. We suspect that it's just a habit he's learned and that his arms move more or less of their own accord.

Ironically, we're not actually fans of the way the self-service revolution has spread and deepened. In retail, of course, we've been trained by the emergence of supermarkets to go get our own stuff, rather than be waited on by shop assistants; indeed, there are now automated check-out stations that dispense with clerks altogether. In banking, the proliferation of automated teller machines, cash deposit machines and Internet banking means that we can get by indefinitely without dealing with human staffers. Some of the trains we take are completely driverless. There's certainly a convenience and cost-saving element to all of this, but we dread to think of a time when Sonny will never need to speak to anyone except his own friends and whoever he must deal with at school or work. Imagine not knowing how to chat to strangers, to exchange pleasantries or strike up casual conversations on the fly... how our social world would shrink!

And how sad that would be. Part of what it is to be plugged into one's community is to engage in such interactions, trivial as they may be. So we'll do what we can to keep Sonny plugged in, even down to simple things that encouraging cheery hellos to bus captains (recalling here our post, 'Let's greet every bus driver').

We'll even make sure Sonny is nice to the self-service staff at fast food restaurants.

Art for Sonny's sake

It doesn't make sense, really - but maybe that's the point.

Mum's been hoarding her spare minutes to spend on her latest project: An alphabet board for Sonny. Thing is, we could easily have bought an ABC poster for less than it's cost her in cardboard, markers and glue.

We might try to justify the effort by explaining how our ABC board is special. Notice the little doors (one for each letter) that open to reveal pictures of relevant objects. Thanks to our engineering genius, the pictures can be switched out for fresh replacements, to quickly ratchet up Sonny's vocabulary.

To be honest, however, we could probably have bought something like that at the shops too. It's just that Mum wants to do it herself. Put a bit more of her own sweat and imagination into the materials from which a happily-developing, livelier-thinking baby can be moulded.

This do-it-yourself spirit is what animated the absurd white elephant that consumed Mum's spare hours over several months. This time, the founding thought was that it would be nice for Sonny to have a warm blanket. Having never done any quilting before, Mum enrolled herself in a class and picked a design of such humongous scale that the result - as became clear about half-way through - was far too large for Sonny: It would have as likely suffocated him as kept him toasty.

Charming the penguins might have been, and the colours vibrant, but the end product is now stashed away in a cupboard while we work out how best to make use of it. It's just another trivial example of how parents - for all their good intentions - don't always slave away in a way that end up benefiting the child. More insidiously, of course, we have parents who spoil their children rotten, point them in the wrong ethical directions or simply set inappropriate examples.

And Mum? She's going strong. When she's completed the alphabet board, she plans to come up with something that will boost Sonny's counting skills.

No penguins are expected to be involved.

So round is our baby

Our son is fat.

When we said a while back that Sonny was ugly, we added a careful proviso: We felt this way about only one facet of him.

But there's no limiting the truth here: He's gone round, all-round. Slim enough when he entered the world eight weeks ago, he's been filling up like a bicycle tyre ever since, or should we say like the Michelin Man.

There are clashing opinions in our home regarding this, one that may reflect a worldwide divide in baby debates. Mum is from the school that thinks babies look cutest when there is - how does one put it - a certain sculpting of fat in the right places. Cheeks substantial enough to be pinched, limbs generous enough to be playfully pulled at: It's all part of the ideal presentation for proper parental baby-basking. Sonny's uncle is of a similar opinion, and has been known to claim that only fat babies are cute.

Pa, for his part, isn't proclaiming that there is some health issue regarding chubbiness (there shouldn't be). In fact, when a baby is peacefully asleep, a certain roly-polyness may even enhance overall adorability. But a fat trap looms for the unwary, warns Pa: Beefier babies, when crying lustily, look especially petulant and ill-disciplined. When being fed, there is a danger of their appearing greedy where a more modestly-proportioned infant would seem merely hungry.

Such matters of baby aesthetics may seem fit topics only for inane repartee. But they reproduce in wee dimensions the equally meaningless debates that rage over which sorts of 'body shapes' are most comely, and 'how fat is too fat' when it comes to lingerie models - or even 'true beauty'. It is only at the extremes that we will find people starving or purging themselves to fit prevailing stereotypes. You won't catch either of us controlling Sonny's milk intake in order to have him at optimal plumpness, whatever that may mean. But whenever we bandy about notions of attractiveness - and there's no age restriction on what we're talking about here - we take ourselves too seriously only at our peril.

Let's greet every driver

The oddity struck us as we were introducing Sonny to his first ride on the public bus.

"We say 'Hello' and 'Thank you' to Mr Driver," we were telling him. And then we realised that this wasn't true, generally speaking.

Now, it is the case that, with the minibus that serves our little condominium community - ferrying us to and from the nearby train station - folks tend to be courteous and even chatty to the driver. But when it comes to the regular bus services, the same folks clam up, and never favour the bus captain with so much as a hello. It's a pattern we've seen repeated many times.

"Well, there's more of a sense of community when it's the same driver every day and a small pool of repeat users," suggested Mum, as we mulled over the double standard.

Which might well explain why folks behave the way they do - without justifying it. If our basic sense of courtesy suggests to us that a bus driver deserves some basic acknowledgement of his existence, then it surely shouldn't matter whether the driver was your uncle, the condo regular or the chauffeur for the Martian Express. And the point need not be restricted to drivers either.

But hang on, some might counsel: Ought we to be sufficiently happy that our Singaporean or Malaysian civic consciousness at least extends to 'smaller-pool' inclusivity? Well, in a way, it would actually be less irksome if we were more consistent in roundly ignoring drivers! Every few minutes, it's worth betting, there's still a Malaysian or Singaporean travelling abroad being startled by how bus drivers and passengers in other lands will exchange greetings, pass comments on the weather and otherwise - gasp - interact.

For our part, at least, we'll be teaching Sonny to be consistent in his conduct. To be polite to all. Er... that's just as soon as we can convince him that a furry mouse isn't his best friend.

Milestones, not millstones

The other day, in a clinic swarming with ill folk, Sonny underwent his first rite of passage.

He may only be six weeks going on seven, but he's already too old for certain things: A nurse told us that he no longer gets automatic priority in the queue - a privilege reserved for newborns, defined as babies still in their first month. So that quintessentially modern delight, getting in line, is now Sonny's to savour - though it is mostly his parents who will be experiencing it vicariously for now.

But there you go, son. You'll find that, sometimes, existence will seem to amount to little but a series of such gateposts: Not so much hurdles as markers to signify that you've advanced a tad further along the way of life.

Strictly chronologically, for instance, there are the birthdays that will be celebrated. There'll be school to conquer, where pivotal examinations await. There will be social encounters of various sorts that you must live through (some happy, others terrifying). And there'll be times like when you become too tall to get in for free at the train turnstile.

A wee warning, though: You don't want to become locked into seeing life as a series of steps to climb. That's neat but too linear, whereas it's the stuff that doesn't fit into the schematic that may provide the most memorable and enriching harvests. The unlikely person you meet, one ordinary morning, who becomes a lifelong friend. The silly joke you hear that somehow sticks in your head. The preposterous pattern of clouds, framed in the sky, that takes your breath away and brings magic into the everyday.

Rites of passage are important as reminders; milestones tell us that time flies, youth is fleeting and that we are being borne on a current that sweeps on inexorably. They are like the street map that's always useful when trying to navigate a city.

But as a friend once said: We need to get ourselves lost in any city, and prowl its alleyways and souks, before you really appreciate it.

Try 'learning blind'

We encountered a blind man in a hurry today near the coffeeshop, his cane flickering to and fro.

Sonny was with us, tucked in a sarong but gazing upwards at Mum. His eyes seemed intent, staring unblinkingly. But, at six weeks, of course, hardly anything really registers: Not shapes, not colours. There is nothing wrong with his visual equipment. Everything simply has to be learned.

We're lucky that many of the trickiest things we'll ever have to master, like how to see or walk, we learn without consciously choosing to. We're too young to spit in the world's eye. As we begin to exert our will, a true appreciation of effort sets in: We start to say 'No', whether for lack of interest or fear of failure. Whether it's swimming or parasailing, our parents may at first be able to exert pressure. But - as the years harden us - all pressures save from ourselves will eventually be in vain.

The easy moral to be drawn from this meditation is that we can learn anything if we try hard enough: Even a man blinded by cruel fate can largely regain his independence. Yet, heartless as it is to say it, that is too easy an example. Even harder to learn would be something we really don't want, and don't need, to learn.

Why not do just that, then, instead of plumping for yet another hobby you've always found intriguing? Make it a game, amongst good friends: Let each be assigned an activity he finds completely valueless, but which he must master nonetheless. Effectively, we start out 'learning blind'.

The point of the exercise? With mastery - or the beginning of it - might come a changed perspective, unexpected appreciation and so a new-honed facet to our lives. Someone who has always scorned tribal music, say, might begin to appreciate its textures. We truly grow when our perspectives are broadened in this manner, when doors that we deliberately leave closed are unlocked.

Or, yes, when our eyes are opened to adventures always ignored.

Bad buzz

A little bug was spotted last night taking a breather on our wall. And all at once, a storm blew up.

"Mosquito!", we adults cried with one voice, before - as first-time parents and second-time grandparents are wont to do - wildly overreacting.

Mum lunged after the insect with a viciousness she usually reserves for queue-jumpers, litterers and child rapists. Pa called for blasts of toxic insect repellent in every room, while Sonny's visiting grandmother twittered aloud everyone's unspoken fear: That, somehow, a mosquito would penetrate our defences and - the audacity! - sting our almost-six-weeks-old son.

Oh dear. Might that not leave an itchy bump on his precious skin?

Several dead mozzies later, we could look back a little sheepishly on our conduct. Admittedly, we find ourselves in a part of the world where deadly pathogens are transmitted by winged nasties with sinister names like Aedes (which, to supply your useless factoid of the day, means 'odious' in Greek). But since our apartment rises fairly high - and our condominium management mandates regular applications of insecticide - mosquitoes, flies and the like seldom enter. Last night was an anomaly. And as for the chance that a random mosquito should also be the bearer of scary diseases, well... we've admitted to being paranoid at times.

But there's more to this. What you seldom encounter, you fear the more. Pa remembers the time in his childhood when the hum of the mosquito was part of the standard symphony of the evening, and when murdering a fistful of the critters before supper was par for the course. But time dulls the memory, presumably.

Also, of course, it's never quite the same when it's your own little one that is in danger, however remote. And so do we all sometimes lose our perspective: It is not often enough that we reflect - in chuckling at the absurd antics of others - that there, but for the grace of God, go we.

Worrying stuff

Today, we stuffed Sonny into what was effectively a sack, and he looked happier than a hog in mud. Though an ostrich might furnish a better comparison - but more on that later.

It was a sallying-forth to the coffeeshop and library that led us to deploy our sarong - a piece of cloth cunningly twisted about a pair of rings to create a snug depository for baby, and worn across the caregiver's chest. Sonny at once contorted himself into a teardrop-shaped blob, his head just visible above the cloth. The position looked impossibly uncomfortable, but his eyes slid shut and he was instantly asleep.

It's no surprise, on reflection, that a baby should enjoy the way such cosy confines, located next to his mother's beating heart, simulate a return to to the womb and a walling-out of all outside distractions. But it occurred to us that there are folks with many more birthdays under their belts who behave analogously. In the face of challenge or threat, they bury themselves in the sand like the proverbial ostrich (real ostriches being too intelligent to suffocate themselves in this manner), entering a cocoon that might be fantasy, the words of sycophants or some other version of Sonny's sarong.

Would this mean that we should avoid too many sarong sessions for Sonny, for fear that it may reinforce the instinct to retreat to convenient hideaways, ignoring clear and present danger? At least a real ostrich will run to escape perceived predators.

As it happens, we couldn't quite make it home before Sonny shook himself awake and began demanding more than just the comfort of a fake womb. After all, as we should all know, hiding away from trouble can only work for so long.