Dancer, singer, one-hit wonder

We've been watching re-runs of that excellent programme, 'Dancing with the Stars', in which celebrities who have not so much as spelt 'rumba' in their lives are transformed into dance-floor delights thanks to the maniacal efforts of professional partners. Neither Mum nor Pa has ever ventured into the realm of ballroom or Latin dance - but it looks as though Sonny can't wait to give it a try.

A day or so ago, Pa was just tapping his toes in his own painful impersonation of a crippled dancer possibly half-asleep when our little fella stepped up. With a self-important air, he began raising and lowering his right foot more-or-less rhythmically, while glancing up at the hdults in the room as though expecting a storm of applause.

There was no doubting it. He was trying a bit of soft-shoeing! Granted, a bit of leg-raising does not prove that he's bound for stardom, but one has to start somewhere. Unfortunately, the season of 'Dancing' that we've been following has just ended, but just as soon as another one gets underway, we'll be plumping our son in front of the TV and encouraging him to do a few lifts and wobbles here and there.

Meanwhile, we have had another smidgen of evidence of a certain musicality. The little fella's grandmother has been singing 'Twinkle twinkle little star' to him, and after a bit of coaxing, he's learned the right juncture (just after 'Twinkle twinkle little...' or 'How I wonder what you...') at which to bawl out 'STAR!' or 'ARE!'. Well, actually, he just shouts out 'ARRR' both times, but at least he's not randomly interjecting, but instead waiting for a logical rhythmic climax. If we switch to a different verse, to boot, Sonny will stay silent - as though he has enough of a grasp of the lyrics to know that different words need to be slotted into the pauses.

Unfortunately, after one year and two months, that's all we harvested by way of proof that he isn't going to be leaden-footed, tone-deaf shower-singing disaster. But it's better than nothing - or so we keep telling ourselves.

Quite possibly leading ourselves on a merry dance of self-delusion.

A stroll too far

It's been a long while since we last posted, thanks to the flu breaching our family defences. But Sonny has fully recovered and seems raring for another stroll.

Stroll, you say? Remembering, of course, that the little fella can't actually walk more than a few steps?

Well, actually, Mum and Pa 'helped out'. Several days ago, we ventured to one of Singapore's ubiquitous night markets and bought a pair of little shoes. We slipped them onto Sonny's feet, then lowered him to the ground - one arm per parent - so that he was standing upright. He didn't need any time to orient himself. We trotted off in the direction of the library, all three of us, and he was cackling with glee. It was his first shod trod!

A few minutes later, we had to hurriedly remove the shoes. Not because they were too tight or were causing discomfort, but because Sonny was trying much too hard to lick them as though they were lollipops fresh from the fridge. Which led us to this stunning realisation: Everything is food to a one-year-old. Any object, however much it may be associated with various activities (counting, walking, bashing, et cetera) also doubles as a snack.

That said, the Sonny we know today is actually an improved model from the Sonny of just a few months ago. Back then, the scamp would simply slobber and chomp at anything that came into range - to the exclusion of all other forms of exploration. Slipper? Yum. Piano pedal? Gnaw gnaw. Pa's finger? Bite. You get the idea. Nowadays, however, a broader approach is being taken. He'll fiddle, twist, manipulate and dismantle with glee for some time - then, only as a sort of grand finale, move in for a bit of gobbling.

Anyway, Sonny's spending more and more time upright these days (especially over at the infant care centre, or so we're told) and he's swaying toddlings are becoming more confident by the day. So, as a sort of 'opposed gauge', we're expecting his need to chomp to correspondingly dwindle. At that rate, by the time he is a steady walker, he will have begun to reserve his sprouting teeth almost exclusively for what his parents would acknowledge as 'real food'.

We can't wait.

An infant and a control freak

Our little fella is turning out to be quite the control freak.

Not that, at 11 months and change, he is already trying to order us around - though he can be wilful enough when he wants to be. No, we're referring here to his enthusiasm for remote controls of all descriptions. It's remarkable, if you think about it: Our TV remote and cable TV control are fairly alike, but they look nothing like our air-conditioning control, which has neither their multi-coloured, multi-buttoned character nor their narrow shape. Yet these three are together pretty much the Holy Grail as far as Sonny as concerned. He will crawl any distance, clamber over any obstacle and make any amount of noise to try and get his itchy paws on them.

Initially, we thought we'd outsmart him by ostentatiously hiding (but not very well) an air-conditioning control that had malfunctioned. The first part of the plan worked a treat: It took Sonny less than a couple of minutes to retrieve the gadget from its 'hiding place', and he promptly began to pound away at the controls. But somehow, he seemed to sense very soon that he was being sold a dud - without even needing to peer at the air-con units to see if any were operating. He began slamming the device to the ground and tossing it about vigorously. If we wouldn't give him a 'live' control, he seemed to imply, he could at least enjoy the oddly-shaped football he'd been granted.

For now, therefore, our evenings are often intricate ballets of control-passing activity, with Sonny enthusiastically pursuing Mum until she manages to deftly flip the control to Pa, whereupon he becomes the new target. At one point, we even tempted disaster when, all tuckered out, we let the young 'un have one of the controls, just to see if he might peaceably play with it. And indeed, he was clearly so overjoyed that he stared entranced at the many buttons, reverently plucking at one, then another, and occasionally letting out yelps of joy. We wondered if he might be safely entrusted with the gadget. Then, of course, a sudden wicked gleam shot through his eyes. There was no suppressing the smasher in his soul, and when he tried to dash the control to the floor we had to quickly relieve him of it. Seconds later, of course, he was flailing away trying to get it back.

Can Sonny somehow sense the magic properties of such devices? How they allow long-distance manipulation of activity and the conferment of power (at least to influence thermostat or TV channel readings)? Who knows. But it may not be just coincidence that leads him to ignore gaily-coloured book covers, colourful toys and the like in favour of our controls.

Tidal wave of saliva

In some ways, Sonny is less messy than he used to be. He's rapidly approaching the 11-month mark with us, and no longer needs as many diaper changes. He is usually fairly easy to feed, and chomps down mouthfuls of porridge and rice - ladled out by Mum or Pa - without spilling excessively.

Unfortunately, however, the little fella's tendency to drool uncontrollably has not been stemmed. Indeed, it has accelerated, and rare is the hour that goes by without a great overflow of saliva gushing forth to drench floor, clothes, sofa and any item that happens to come into contact with him. We've taken to keeping a bib permanently tied around his neck, but the deluge of goo cascades past that barrier with utter ease to spot our nice marble and stain our fabric.

Now, we've been told that the reason for this perpetual high tide is that he is teething. That's just hard to buy, however. If he had a tooth for every bucket of saliva he's unleashed, he would be some sort of gothic monster by now, with teeth cramming his mouth and dotting his nose, chin and lip. As it happens, however, Sonny only has three teeth showing. At that rate, long before he reaches his quota of milk teeth, a giant puddle of saliva would have had us swimming from hall to bedroom.

A second theory has it that the goo flows especially when he's hungry, so that it functions as some sort of useful pointer to a good appetite. Now, if this is true, Mother Nature sure over-engineered our Sonny: When he's hungry, we usually have no trouble discerning it, since he'll be pawing away at Mum and mewing unstoppably. Salivating needn't come into it. In any case, Sonny can't possibly be hungry all day, yet the overflow seems an all-day thing.

We're left, therefore, with a third theory, that babies simply 'go through this phase'. That leads us to pose this desperate question: When will it end? Just today, for instance, Sonny was tottering about our hall literally splashing gouts of saliva like some modernist painter filling his canvas. One nice new soft toy (with a massage function for Mum's use) is now drying in the hall. Like land mines, a few globules of spit still litter our floor, ready to trap the unwary. We'll get round to mopping them up... but that won't stop Sonny.

He'll just keep pumping the stuff out.

A real stand-up kid

There's definitely something of the entertainer in our son's blood; a desire to seize the attention of others, by fair means or foul.

This trait has become especially pronounced now that he is - at just over 10 months of age - able to push free of any support and stand unaided. Not for very long, mind you: He teeters on the brink of disaster from the get-go. And he can't even begin to take his first step: It's an entirely immobile affair.

Still, the little fella sure knows how to milk his moment to maximum effect. Before unveiling his new trick, he will typically unleash a yell or bark so the audiences can "roll up, roll up", as they said of carnival acts in old books. Then he dramatically frees himself of the wall or rail that he used to pull himself to a standing position. None of this half-crouching business: Sonny presents himself utterly erect, as though ready to march down a thoroughfare. His two arms are outstretched in the manner of high-wire artists. It's so choreographed you wouldn't be surprised if fireworks burst overhead.

After a few seconds, of course, the audience is treated to a baby toppling to the floor, which can be a bit of an anticlimax, though Sonny can sometimes manage to sit down suddenly instead (which is rather more dignified). At times, presumably pleased with the reception (though Mum and Pa are a little weary of the show and may clap with less than fulsome enthusiasm), the little fella will treat everyone to an encore performance. We are led to wonder where he learned his advanced showmanship. Could it be that the other babies at the infant care centre go about showboating, each trying to upstage the other in a frenzy of toddler-level entertainment?

Or is there something innate to being human that just loves attention, the spotlight and the huzzahs of others? After all, we are social beings, aren't we, and part of being social is delighting each other - whether with witty conversation, party tricks or tall tales. There's no need to import "power" analyses that see such displays as ways of stamping one's dominance, exhibiting one's superiority or cowing competitors. Showing off can be an innocent thing, in other words - at least, we certainly hope so, as we settle back for another of command performance of Sonny-Stands-Unaided.

(Showing now for a limited period only. Tickets by arrangement. Please contact Mum and Pa for reservations. Performer may choose to cancel without explanation given. Strictly no discounts.)

Super-hearing can be super-annoying

Mum has been known to enjoy superhero comic-books, but their eruption into our daily life is proving rather a chore.

The other night, Pa got home from work at around 10.30pm to find the hall very quiet. He gently let the door clack to, then padded into the bedroom. But it was too late. Mum had been trying to lull Sonny into sleep - and it seemed for a while that she had succeeded. However, though she had hardly heard it herself, the sound of the door being unlocked from outside had apparently resounded like a loud crack for the little fella's super-sense of hearing. His eyes flicked open and he was promptly energised as though ready to go save someone trapped in a burning house (though he dispensed with a too-fast-for-ordinary-eyes costume change into tight-fitting spandex).

To keep the account brief, let's just say Sonny spent the next 15 minutes bouncing mercilessly around the bed, as his parents tried to convince him that it was past bedtime. Superman draws his powers from the sun, but since it was plenty dark, our very own mighty-tot must have been leeching vigour from starlight. In any case, it was clear that certain lessons needed to be learned.

Mum and Pa are now trying to polish up our whispering and sneaking powers, as we remind ourselves that the little fella has gained uncannily acute senses. In order to preserve oases of peace and quiet, once Sonny has drifted off into la-la land, we'll probably have to become used to muttering to each other as though transmitting state secrets and tiptoeing around our place in the manner of cat burglars.

Then again, we're beginning to fight back. Through careful observation, for instance, we've discerned that Sonny isn't necessarily jolted out of stupor and into super-awareness simply by any old sound. He's been known to snooze contentedly while we're at an eatery, with a healthy buzz of conversation all around us. What seems to spook him, rather, is sudden spikes in volume: Presumably, such abrupt variations signal a potential need for a super-rescue. But rather more difficult to get around is Sonny's impossible ability to spot items that he really shouldn't be touching. If, for instance, there is just one toy in the flat that has recently been dropped in the street and needs cleaning, the he can be relied upon to immediately scamper in that direction - intent on a good chew. He'll see right through any attempt to distract him with various legitimate toys, and will bound heedlessly past us to jab purposefully at the TV remote.

How does he do it? We don't know yet, though submissions for research theses are welcome. Meanwhile, we'll just have to draw on our powers of super-patience...

Now he's double the trouble

Sonny has now more than recovered from his recent bout of the flu, even though his nose is still runny. We say "more than" advisedly, since something in the air here in Abu Dhabi (or maybe it's the presence of his cousin, older by roughly a year) has amped up his energy levels. Or perhaps babies naturally rally after a brief period of being a bit mopey and sniffly, undergoing some sort of growth spurt.

Whatever the reason, the little fella is now quite the little terror. He crawls so fast you might imagine all four limbs leaving the ground at the same time, like a racehorse or cartoon character. He has taken to cackling with glee for no apparent reason, his eyes flitting from person to person as though inviting everyone to join the merriment. New to his repertoire of actions are a cheery clapping of his hands and a tendency to vigorously slap another person's cheek or head (something which his cousin is much discomfited by).

Naturally, the accelerated rate at which he gums away at, then discards, toys (and anything else, given half a chance) means he is roaming farther afield in search of fresh amusements. The apartment of Pa's brother is pleasantly roomy, so Sonny is given a freer rein of the place than back home in Singapore: Suitably appreciative, he has a knack of appearing under the table half way through a round of mah jong and chomping lustily at slippers. There can also be no doubt that he is in league with his cousin to launch two-in-one sob-a-thons, creating a disconcerting counterpoint calculated to drive any parent wild.

For now, at least, Sonny isn't able to speak yet - though now that he's scuttled into his tenth month with us, that time is presumably not too far in the offing. As such, he isn't yet able to give us any lip, make specific demands or attempt to do any bargaining (all of which a young fella of less than three years can do with no compunction whatsoever, going by our recent observations). Put another way, he will soon have more means at his disposal to keep us on the hop.

Learning to laugh

We've mentioned before that Sonny can be a cheery fellow, dispensing smiles liberally when the mood is upon him (and as long as nobody is trying to take a photograph; click here for more on his adversarial relationship with cameras).

Recently, however, he's progressed to the next level of humourdom: He's begun to giggle. Not only that, he's even learned to giggle in response to someone giggling. Just the other day, he and Pa had a few good minutes mutually sparking chuckles. Of course, it quickly became a pretty empty exercise: There wasn't really anything funny for us to be giggling at. Still, it was a pretty good simulation of a great leap on the part of the little fella: The ability to first apprehend a specific situation, then discern in it something specifically amusing about it.

Anyway, the mildly puzzling episode set us thinking about whether Sonny could actually have been practising to laugh. Now, we haven't boned up on any deep sociological studies regarding this, but the whole concept seems odd, somehow: One can practise to stand or walk (the little fella is hard at work on the former), even to talk. But if this is a case of a baby simply mimicking what his parents or other adults are doing, then his giggling sounds are of no more consequence than his shaking a rattle because of the odd sound it makes or licking a piano pedal on account of the cool sensation on the tongue.

Suppose, however, there's something about laughing that is hard-wired into the human psyche, so that - once we stumble upon some of the specific neurological and thought-muscle subroutines that trigger a chuckle - it makes us feel good. We want to laugh some more, and so we start off simply making the relevant sounds, but pretty quickly adapt to the thoughts and activities that best spark them.

We're not trying to overthink all this. After all, spontaneity is a key ingredient to a really good chuckle. But it's nice to know that Sonny could be acquiring another of the truly human traits that make us who we are... even if at the moment, he hasn't a clue about what he's actually doing.

Smelly baby woes

Sonny is pretty amenable to baths these days, which is a good thing since he gets three - yep, count 'em - a day: In the morning and afternoon at the infant care centre, then again at night.

Of late, however, even this prodigious expenditure of bath water and baby soap has been unable to tamp down a rather fragrant problem: Sonny smells, basically, and usually within an hour or so of his immersion in the tub. There's no great mystery attached to this, mind. It's not as though he falls asleep freshly-scented and awakes giving off a completely new olfactory vibe.

One major cause is that the little fella is too energetic for his own good. He's forever trying to beat his record in the 5m crawl-dash, or so it can seem from the way he scuttles along towards the nearest slippers or shiny new thing. If we try and grasp him, he will try to squirm free, and can be counted on to attempt to climb any wall of cushions erected to keep him at bay. The perspiration is pretty soon pouring off him, and the inevitable decline in aromatic well-being follows closely behind.

That said, nothing precipitates this process more rapidly than locking Sonny up in our little play pen (so that, not to introduce irrelevant concepts here, Mum can catch her breath). Sonny, as it turns out, was probably a POW in a former life - so fierce is his dislike of being incarcerated. We blogged about this in'Crazed Crawler II: Caged Beast' - unaware then of the pong problem imprisonment would exacerbate. There's no 'scaling up' to the little fella's wailing: Almost immediately, rivulets of tears and sweat come gushing - his nose running furiously too - as he yells defiance. Three minutes of this and he starts to smell as though he hasn't showered for two days.

We've done what we can to ameliorate things. Soft-hearted Mum tries to limit Sonny's time in the pen, though when she's pottering about in the evenings with only Sonny for company, he must occasionally be deposited there so she can tend to her other chores. We can't really ramp up his bath regimen, since he might dissolve if immersed too many times in one day. We are reminded of the story of how enterprising mice tried to attach a bell to a cat, so they could tell by the jangling where Kitty was. With Sonny, if things continue as they are, we'll soon be able to tell by the smell-trail he leaves.

The great eruption

Our apologies if you thought we were going to blog about the latest volcanic disturbances in Indonesia or John McCain's temper flaring someplace.

This is all about teeth: One tooth, to be exact. Yesterday, at about 8:30 pm if you want specifics, Mum rang Pa at the office in high excitement. For most of the afternoon, she had been bedevilled by an especially troublesome Sonny, who was acting extra-needy and getting teary at the slightest provocation. But then he got hold of Mum's finger and began his usual gumming operations. And Mum realised that something rather sharp was gnawing away. She yanked open the little fella's month, and there it was.

A tooth.

Well, the tip of a tooth (lower jaw if anyone is keeping track). No celestial music began to play, no dramatic visions of Sonny growing up and gobbling steaks flashed across Mum's mind. But she was still tickled enough to dial Pa's office line. Just one more milestone, with many more to go. But as far as teeth go, that's probably the end of the programe for some years, until we reach the 'first milk tooth to fall out' item, to be followed in quick succession by the 'first adult tooth to erupt' number.

We've mused before on the artificiality of some of child-rearing milestones (Click for that post). After all, Sonny looks the same today as he ever did. At the infant care centre, when Pa made a quick second visit this morning with a just-bought pack of cereal, the little fella sped a couple of quickly flashing-by metres to say hello, which might qualify as 'First crawled greeting' if anyone was keeping count. But that's the thing, isn't it: We can generate as many or as few of these 'significant occasions' as we like, but we they don't necessarily amount to much, except as another tired reminder that Time and Tide stop for no man and all jazz.

Then again, there's the occasional unexpected benefit: We were reminded yesterday evening that we've not been taking nearly as many photographs as perhaps we ought to. A case could be made for taking more snaps rather than too few, since you can always weed out the stuff you don't want, but you can't really hop into a time machine to get "a few extra from the first year".

So there you go, the same thought might apply with our store of milestones. If they prove to be useful pause-points to question ourselves as to whether we're missing out anything that we oughtn't, it seems harmless enough to indulge in a few extra.

Sleepeater

Yes, today's post is sort of a sequel. To that marvellous record-breaking hit, 'Sleepcrawler alert'. Like most sequels, we have the same star and main character: Sonny, our almost-seven months old baby. But, again like most sequels, the plot - while filled with echoes from the first instalment - offers a new twist.

What was revealed in the original movie... er, post, is that Sonny was able to motor along on his own steam while asleep. That was then (we haven't noticed the phenomenon of late). But what's still going strong is Sonny's penchant for drinking without being awake. All Mum needs to do is place him strategically next to her, angle his body just so and suddenly he's latching on and sucking in milk in confident slurps. In fact, she would almost swear that he drinks more efficiently when still in dreamland than when he's totally alert.

Neither Mum nor Pa is aware of being able to get much done while asleep, once we discount snoring and dreaming. But there are a lot of things that we do best when not actually focused on the job at hand. This might even be true for something as unlikely as driving: Once you've spent enough time learning how to, being at the wheel becomes pretty much an automatic business. If you try and consciously control your gear shifts, rear-mirror checks and so forth, you might find the whole process actually becoming clumsier. The same goes for riding a bicycle, walking (do you keep track of which muscle groups are bunching and releasing?) and swimming. It all becomes a matter of conditioned reflexes after a while.

It goes a little further in the case of Sonny's milk-drinking, of course - we're really getting into the realm of instinct now. We can say this because, just minutes after Mum had given birth, Sonny-the-newborn was sucking away as though he had taken special classes while in the womb. And if he could start nursing with such gusto immediately after the trauma of being squeezed into the big mad world, suckling while asleep is almost too easy. Something a little more challenging, please, folks.

Thing is, since sequels typically beget further sequels, we're precisely wondering what skill the little fella will demonstrate next with his eyes wide shut. Will he actually turn out to be a sleepwalker, which entails such dangers as ambling into the path a car? Will he babble and spill his innermost fears while in slumber? Perhaps he'll lash out at us (it's happened a time or two already) while protected by the all-encompassing excuse of 'being asleep at the time'.

We're waiting with some trepidation for the next instalment.

It was cute before, but...

Sonny's face, at least, remains thoroughly adorable to us. It's changed significantly from its almost wrinkled sour-plum appearance when he first intruded upon the world six and a half months ago, and has filled out into a rather plump mien with a far broader range of expressions. His smile, conferred freely to all comers, we still enjoy. But there are other aspects of our little fella have not fared so well.

To start with, it used to be adorable how our little infant's hand would automatically grip our
fingers. These days, however, it seizes upon anything that comes within reach, then yanks viciously. More than once, we've seen Sonny scoot along to one of our little four-legged stools, not infrequently laden with drinks, then grab-and-pull. Disaster has been narrowly averted so far, but we're wondering if there's some injection we can give that will relax the little fella's grip, which is so strong that we have to pluck each finger individually away from the object to effect a release.

Then there's his mysterious banshee wail. We're not talking about his bawling or teary howling, which long ago proved a sore trial, not to mention a threat to the glass in our little home. But Sonny also has a gleeful cry that he emits when he finds something interesting - and used almost to serenade us as he proceeded next to joyful gumming. Now, however, the volume and shrillness has escalated to uncomfortable levels, so that his pleasure is our distress. Also, it has taken on a peculiar tonelessness that - could we not confirm by other signs that he wasn't actually unhappy - we might think someone was jabbing him with a needle. It's gotten to the stage that we can't wait for him to start mangling his first words - on the theory that he's not likely to shout them out.

Lastly, it was a joyous moment when it became clear a while back that Sonny was finally responding to his parents' voices, clearly recognising our features and seeking them out among the welter of impressions in a strange place. His grandparents are still hoping (slyly, but we can tell) to imprint their faces with him that way. The problem is that Sonny can't seem to get along at all well without having a familiar face around any more. He can't be left to his own devices for more than a few minutes before the windows start to vibrate with his protestations. There is, of course, a caveat: If there are lots of items lying around that he really shouldn't be getting his hands on (like stools laden with drinks), he'll be happy rooting about and yanking to his heart's content.

None of this is enough for one to conclude that 'familiarity breeds contempt', since on balance we'd still rather our baby had a good solid grip, coos with happiness regularly and enjoys our presence than otherwise. Still, it's a good thing that a child changes with time, so that there are always new aspects and characteristics that are fresh and marvel-worthy. By way of an unlikely comparison, this is probably why people are always trying to make improvements to their homes and switching the artwork around or rearranging the furniture: What looked just right initially becomes over-familiar, and then dreary and positively hateful over time, until a new do-over restores the newness that arrests the eye and calls forth pleasure.

Fat thighs and a dangling foot

Sonny is less forgiving these days regarding excursions in which he is strapped into Mac the stroller and must wait in boredom while his parents have breakfast. So long as he's on the move, and we can work up a decent head of speed, he deigns to suffer in silence. He even seems to enjoy the breeze. Otherwise, it doesn't take long for him to commence protesting.

For our part, we've increasingly noticed what a disreputable figure he's cutting when we install him in Mac. There are three factors that come together here:

a) We generally dress Sonny in rompers, which tend to leave everything below the waist pretty much exposed
b) Sonny is on the plump side - but especially so around his thighs, which bunch up in medallions of unsightly fat
c) Once trapped in Mac's embrace, he tends to kick about for a bit, so that one thigh ends up splayed to one side and the foot dangles outside the stroller.

We don't actually have a photograph to upload, but in any event the effect is sufficiently unattractive that there could be some Internet laws against such displays. Just this evening, during our stroll to the doughnut shop, we tucked that darn foot back in no less than four times. In each case, after a minute or so, it kicked its way out and Sonny slumped further, leaving him looking even more disreputable, like a fat opium addict far gone in a drugged-up haze.

Apart from leading us to keep an eye out for bargains in more covered-up items of clothing, our experience has left us wondering how old a child must be before he can learn a few basic rules of deportment and posture. We've not come across any 'Good breeding for infants' operations - and might still fight shy of enrolling Sonny if we did. But some days, we wish he could be posed like a shopfront mannequin - and have the joints somehow locked in place - before being wheeled out. We're figuring that he's only a few months to go before the 'cute baby' effect wears off altogether and people start avoiding him as a barbaric little monster.

Incidentally, even if you've never met us or seen Sonny's photo, you'll now have zero difficulty recognising us if we ever meet up. We're the parents who are cringing and trying to conceal our faces as our baby stretches himself on one side in his stroller, so that his thigh bubbles up in little rolls of fat and one foot completes its escape from the stroller altogether.

Watching next to nothing can be exciting

The other day, Pa and his mother went to the golf course to chase a dimpled ball all around a couple of kilometres of soggy greenery. What we didn't expect to have to do, infuriatingly, was hang about for eons while the folks ahead of us fussed and fiddled, then drove extra balls off the tee.

A few hours later, we were back at home, watching Sonny with almost lurid fascination while the little fella prepared to heave his minimal bulk forward a few millimetres at a time. Length by painful length, Sonny took a heck of a lot longer to get going than those characters at the golf course. Yet watching the young 'un wiggle his posterior, sway sideways and squish himself into a wormlike stance was entirely enjoyable. Waiting for those golfers, on the other hand, was the equivalent of a devilish torture someone should recommend to the kindly folks at Guantanamo.

All of which is to say that there's a certain fascination attached to the doings of babies that imbues their most trivial actions with interest and suspense. Witnessing Sonny master the rudiments of crawling is just one example. Another might be his attempts to grasp a toy that is just out of reach: You can see the little fella flex his fingers and stretch his arm while hooting and howling as though urging on someone at some Olympic event. There's a whole drama encapsulated in the trivial attempt: How he first zeroes in on one item among several, then how he studies it to work out how best to attack. Then comes the huge expenditure of energy that is actually lunging for it, the agony of missing by a finger's length, the gearing up for another charge...

Even at rest and doing pretty much nothing at all, Sonny can hold our attention. His grandmother swears that 'Twinkle, twinkle, little star', of all the kiddy songs in the world, can somehow hold the little fella in a trance, silencing wild sobbing and shutting down his 'non-stop curiosity' chip so that he will quietly park himself and enjoy the music. Why this should be the case is probably beyond science.

Which is probably true of just why we find infant activities quite so entertaining.

Chase the vanishing spot

Sonny's skin is normally a sombre pink, but of late, it has been playing a cheeky game of hide-and-seek with us.

Before we get to that, we should to note that the little fella boasts a collection of birthmarks and blemishes. These are semi-permanent splotches that - according to our self-justifying conception - give extra character and uniqueness to what would otherwise be a boring expanse of smooth uni-colour. In addition, he is occasionally preyed upon by a mosquito or other insect, leaving a weal that shrinks and disappears after perhaps a day or two.

However, Sonny's skin also tends to display remarkable patterns of red that arise and recede in unpredictable profusion. They flash on and off like crazy traffic lights, or perhaps that should be Christmas lights. Just yesterday, for instance, Pa was picking the little fella up after an afternoon snooze when he saw unusually intense splashes of red discolouring Sonny's face. Pa stayed calm (in other words, he didn't begin to run around in circles while gibbering like a clown). It must have been the amazing aura of calm he exuded that brought Mum and the young 'un's grandmother running. Yet, once again, the redness had begun to recede within 30 minutes. Instead, rebel patches began to sprout up elsewhere on Sonny's body - on the back of his neck, for instance, or near his thighs.

We've since established that these fleeting visitations usually cluster around the time Sonny is waking up from a nap, or a period of exertion on his day mattress. It is not unusual in young babies, his grandmother opined. Perhaps it's just the result of his sensitive skin rubbing against fabric, we determined. Nothing serious seems to follow, so we'll just be keeping a watch on whether the redness lingers longer over time, or begins to cover larger surfaces of skin. But if things stay as they are, we can live with the changing colour display.

No skin off our nose. Or Sonny's, really.

Five reasons why babies outclass adults

People are always cooing about how babies are 'oh so helpless' and unable to do anything without the constant assistance of parents, maids and assorted other care-givers. But there are not a few categories in which Sonny - into his sixth month now - can outmatch his parents without even trying:

1) Noise, what noise: Once Sonny drifts off, he seems able to sleep his way through the equivalent of a house collapsing (sure, we know that 'Shhh, you'll wake the baby' is one of the ten most-commonly uttered domestic phrases, but someone forgot to programme 'easy-to-wake' into Sonny's genetic code). Many a time, we've gone to eateries where the clash of plates, buzz of conversation and roar of passing traffic have spiked unhealthily. But Sonny has had no trouble snoozing on: His parents could never have napped through such decibel levels.

2) Bend it like Sonny: Just today, Pa was trying to balance Sonny in his lap while engaging the safety belt in a relative's car. That's when he realised that Sonny had remained completely unconcerned while Pa had accidentally bent him more than double while trying to ram in the belt lock. And consider how the little fella contorts himself happily into positions that might freak out a fakir, just so he can enjoy a ride in Mum's chest-slung sarong. The absurd flexibility of the very young is easy to envy when Mum needs regular massage to soothe her cricks and creaking joints.

3) Everything's exciting: A defining characteristic of adulthood is how there can seem to be so little that can really be startling, and therefore interesting. In our cynical age, we might read the newspaper from cover to cover without a peep of surprise being raised. As we trundle through the working day, every minute can seem pre-programmed, so that dreariness oozes through the pores of our routine. Not for Sonny: Every little thing he comes across is marvellously new, from the peculiar ways in which the working parts of his body respond to each other to the mad, colourful elements of the world that he progressively encounters. Lucky chap!

4) Speedo-learning: Over three years of lessons, Mum and Pa were able to advance their command of the German language from zero to pathetic (to use a technical term). Sonny, without even really trying and from a starting point that might be characterised as 'less-than-zero', can expect to make stunning advances in mastering a clutch of languages, as well as gaining control of his own body and beginning to understand how the world works. If we stop to think about it, his learning curve would outmatch that of a supercomputer. Of course, by the time he gets to be his parents' age, he'll be bumbling along with the magic pace of his toddlerhood long forgotten.

5) Flush away the blues: If we hear some bad news, it can upset our equilibrium for the whole day. Sonny? If his feeding session is a little late, he can explode into a typhoon of tears, as though wronged beyond redemption. Ten seconds on, however, he can be so cheery that it would be as though the storm had never blown up. Giggling and chuckling, life looks as happy as it could be. And the best thing is, he can go through a dozen crying jags a day, and yet recover from each as quickly as the previous one. Our emotions are far less supple, alas.

A baby who can't stop smiling

Back in mid-May, we blogged about how we would go into occasional paroxysms of pleasure whenever our then-less-than-a-month-old son let slip a fleeting smile (click here for that post). These occasions were then the flowering of a rare blossom, a window into a future when a little thing that was essentially a crying, eating and sleeping houseplant would begin to interact more actively with people.

Well, whole fields of the smile-flower spring up ceaselessly these days, and sometimes it can seem rather a wild weed. Sonny, now pushing into his sixth month, isn't just flashing toothless grins at every other person he comes into contact with. He gurgles with apparent pleasure, batters his feet at the floor and emits piercing baby-shrieks as though he's won some huge diaper lottery. He gets so excited when a new face hovers into view, he can't keep his food down - to the horror of vomit-averse Mum. As far as we can tell, the only person Sonny doesn't automatically go into smile-like-mad mode for is Mum (which, as you can imagine, does not amuse her one bit).

Anyway, we're told that we should be grateful for being dealt an essentially good-natured young fella by Fate. We've even been congratulated by a security guard who thinks we had executed a cunning strategy from the start - of taking Sonny out on regular excursions so as to familiarise him with a revolving-door of strangers and fresh experiences ("Some babies, they're kept cooped up at home so much, they bawl when they see a foreign face or enter foreign surroundings", we were told approvingly. We lapped up the undeserved compliment and scooted guiltily off). But we're figuring that it's early days yet. Cheery toddlers can become glum two-year-olds, or six-year-olds or what have you. Just like sourpuss infants might cast off their ill humour with time.

Further, we figure that having a relentlessly cheery disposition needs to be coupled with an ability to realistically appraise the situation before one. Optimism can shade into a dangerous blindness to threats, after all; pessimists, at least, are proof against this sort of blundering good-naturedness. It's all right to be always ready with a sunny smile and upbeat remark for all and sundry - but one should remember that not every stranger can be trusted, or be trusted under all circumstances, and that sometimes things can be truly sobering, or dire, or worrying.

But that's for later. At the moment, we'll take smiles over tears any day. Though Mum would still rather more of the former were flashed her way.

A matter of (terrible) timing

Strolling about in Pa's hometown, we decided today to buy a teething aid for Sonny - who's been gumming away at anything he can get his hands at (as related in 'Mad mouth alert'). The young fella's grandmother figures that it's because he's about to sprout his chompers, so we got a star-shaped 'teether' that we were supposed to refrigerate briefly before handing over. Happy visions of Sonny enthusiastically biting away, emitting happy yelps, filled our minds on the way home, and we hurried to carry out the instructions.

So far, Sonny will hardly give it a passing glance. After giving the teether a few exploratory mouth-feels, he went back to snacking on his own fingers. We snatched it up and stuffed it into his mouth. He politely worried at it a few times, like a dog testing a substandard rubber bone, then moved on.

We should have seen it coming. He may only be a week into his fifth month, but he's already worked out the natural order of things: Babies are supposed to reject whatever it is that their parents try to palm off on them, then strike out on their own paths. This applies to sleeping patterns, food as well as toy preferences and - a little later on - the friends they hang out with. It even applies to crying-session timings, we've found. Yesterday, we were at a mall for a few hours and Sonny unfailingly set to bawling only when we were plumb in the midst of the largest crowds. We therefore had to beat off sundry strangers offering unsolicited advice ("You must have scared your baby somehow"). The only profit we reaped out of the ordeal were quick seats on the crowded train home, since Sonny's grumpy and distressed face led a couple of commuters to leap up in sympathy.

Not yet convinced? The day before, on the flight home too, Sonny had waited till we were in a nice enclosed space - inside the plane - before breaking out into 'song'. There were a couple of other babies too, all no doubt co-ordinating with each other using some mysterious infant signalling system, so the passengers were treated to a full-on cry-concert. Some babies would stop for a quick breath while their compatriots kept up the aural bombardment. Then there would be switching-over of roles, a rest for those most recently exerting themselves, before a grand finale in which everyone joined in.

We're hoping that, once Sonny can understand what we are saying, we can fool him with a few cunningly-employed instances of reverse psychology ("We don't really want you to come home on time"). Right now, however, we can only grit our teeth and grin.

And maybe go find a better teether.

Mad mouth alert

We were at the polyclinic again today so Sonny could get his jab, and to keep him warm Pa draped a blanket over the little fella's lap. But in less time than it takes to say, "Greedy guts", he was stuffing the cloth snack furiously into his mouth. His arms were working energetically to scrunch the blanket into a nice dumpling shape, the easier to sample with, when Pa snatched the prize away.

Obviously, a new front has opened in the unending parent vs offspring wars. It was bad enough when our four-month-old just liked to suck his thumb (click here for more on these ongoing skirmishes). He still enjoys it, but these days he's widened his chomp-worthy sights to anything he can get his fingers on. These yummies have included:

1) Parental fleshy bits: Our shoulders, our thighs, our elbows - Sonny doesn't discriminate. However we may be holding him, he always finds something he wants to enthusiastically gum at, usually while overflowing with saliva. At the moment, he hasn't a tooth to his name, but this could get a little painful with time, we reckon - though we should also note that, for these illicit mealtimes, our clothes count as part of our body and are part of a standard serving.

2) Cloth: Today's blanket attack was just an especially fanatical example of Sonny's recent appetite for bedsheets, pillow covers, cloth diapers (yawp!) and bolster covers. He doesn't seem to be actually chewing - if anything, there's some sort of bizarre pumping action going on with his cheeks, as though he's blowing up a balloon.

3) Leaving the creme de la creme for last, there's also... Anything dirty: There must be a special radar sense that babies innately have, that enables them to home in on anything that really, really oughtn't be put into the mouth. Today, for instance, it was Pa's backpack strap, which has seen too much action and even managed a worrying colour-change. So, of course, Sonny contorts himself while in Pa's arms and sticks his neck out like a snapping turtle to get a good juicy gulp of the thing. Mmmm, all that encrusted dirt, dissolving in that overflowing saliva... such was 'Today's Special'. If we carried Sonny about the house like a kind of metal detector, we could probably just take note of where he lunges with glee to find the dirtiest spots of our home.

At the moment, we haven't a clue how to stem Sonny's depredations. Fitting him with some sort of mouth guard (a bandanna tied so as to block the passage, say) sounds rather harsh and would probably obstruct breathing. Okay, we jest on that last one. We could, of course, try to keep our house spick and span, with our belongings, clothes and ourselves in immaculate, chompworthy condition.

But since that's too much work, why not blame the baby?

He scratches and he scratches

Sonny's taken to scratching his head - and we're scratching our noggins over it.

He usually does it when he wakes up, though sometimes he seems still half-asleep. He'll rake his hand rapidly over his forehead and head, so sloppily that it sometimes isn't clear if his fingers aren't making contact with hair rather than scalp. Occasionally, he'll make little grunting noises, but mostly it's a silent routine accompanied by spring-like contortions of his body. He'll do it five or six times, then the urge will melt away.

Now, if we see an adult scratch his head, a couple of obvious explanations come to mind. One, the fellow has fleas, dandruff or some such affliction. Two, he's puzzling something out and is engaging his thinking-engines, since for some reason, "scratching one's head" is a universal sign of intellectual distress.

But what of a four-month old baby? Our main suspect is cradle cap (read our blog post about our encounter with it by clicking here), the condition in which bits of his scalp, with hair attached, bubble up and then peel away. It's nothing serious, medically-speaking, and our applications of olive oil appear to have had some effect, but it would presumably result in some itching in the scalp.

Insect bites of some sort is another possibility, and we do indeed see some very small red dots on Sonny's forehead, though they don't look like the damage wrought by any insect that we're familiar with. It might even be a case of too much baby shampoo, though the brand we use is supposed to be baby-safe. But none of these theories explain why the scratching only comes just after Sonny wakes up. Surely, the itching wouldn't confine itself to 'after-sleep' dosages?

There's a chance, then, that Sonny is simply evolving another bizarre mannerism to go along with his pesky thumb-sucking, body-flipping and all the rest chronicled in these posts. Even the youngest of us, after all, might begin to differentiate ourselves with unique gestures, peculiarities and actions. "I'm me, indissolubly myself, and I do things differently from anyone else," is the message being broadcast.

A tad too high-falutin' for a little baby, you say? Well, give me a better one and we'll scratch ours.