Fan abuser (Brutal Babe, Part One)

Ivy, the battery-powered fan that we carry around so Sonny can enjoy a breeze on demand, is a quiet mousey thing. When her blades whirl, there's little noise even as a cool zephyr springs up; when the batteries give out, there's no loud hum of protest - Ivy's energy gently leaves her.

But such sheer harmlessness couldn't save Ivy from Sonny's viciousness. The little fella, more rambunctious by the day, is yanking and pulling indiscriminately with ever greater vigour. A couple of weeks ago, he managed an especially good grip on one of Ivy's soft plastic fan blades. With one almighty application of infant force, it was ripped away. Mum and Pa fussed over the poor thing, trying to see if it might be reattached - but to no avail. Ivy was scarred for life.

Impressively, however, our little fan is soldiering on. Though now down to two blades, she can still get the air circulating and waft some of the oppressive heat away. We're now much more careful over where we attach Ivy, since if Sonny managed to claim another blade it'd be curtains for sure. The guilty party, naturally, shows no guilt whatever. So far, he has half-destroyed a book of poetry, scratched the marble floor by dragging a stool every which way and severed a (toy) telephone cord. On the plus side, he is polishing the foot pedals of the piano to a fine sheen through licking at it at every opportunity, though we'd much rather he discontinue that unasked-for service. But the scary thing is, of course, the little fella's just getting started.

Mum and Pa have tried to sternly call on him to desist from destructive actions. At a harsh "Sonny!", he'll typically cease whatever he is doing and turn to quizzically gaze upon us. This might seem like progress, but it is entirely possible that he thinks we are urging him on, since he will inevitably resume the verboten activity with extra relish. Nobody can tell us when he can be warned off effectively, though we suspect that the truth is being hidden from us and that the true answer is: "Not till he enters kindergarten", by which time anything that isn't nailed down and covered in protective concrete will have been smashed and scratched beyond recognition.

Though Ivy the fan might still be whirring along bravely...

Big Time Toy still eludes us

One of our more egregious failures in recent months is a lapsed quest for a Big Time Toy.

Sonny, freshly embarked on a seventh month with us, is by now quite capable to fiddling and having fun with little playthings (though he mainly tries to eat them). The kindness of friends and relatives, along with Mum's odd sally into a shop, has left him with options ranging from a furry donkey to Rainbow the fish (pull a fin and it shudders awake) and some cloth books. But we're aiming to score big, literally, with a larger-scale item that can engage and entrance the little fella, so he can both develop skills and amuse himself. Pa's code name for the project is 'Operation Big Time Toy'.

The closest we've come so far is what might best be described as a suspended super-rocker. Supported on poles, its seat allows Sonny to bounce about with no fear of falling while he tackles the myriad delights built into the dashboard. Depending on the make of the super-rocker (yes, there's a variety) these include flashing-bleeping things, twirly-whirly gewgaws, a selection of half-hidden animals for him to suss out and much more besides. Such a contraption would appear to offer hours of fun, during which his powers of co-ordination, spatial recognition and assorted other '-ions' are surreptitiously boosted.

The problem with Operation Big Time Toy is that we have a sneaking suspicion the little fella will soon lose interest in whatever we buy him, leaving us with a bulky white elephant with no discernible function. The name of the game these days, after all, is 'dual use'. This has relevance to deadly-serious things like restricted technologies. These, if purchased by dubious regimes like those in power in Iran or North Korea, could be turned from peaceable uses (making better lightbulbs, say) to dangerous ones (superweapons). Somewhat less momentously, with Sonny, we try to procure things that pass the dual use test. For instance, we have a nifty high chair that will allow him to eat at the dining table by and by, but also converts into a desk-and-work-chair set.

Big Time Toys, for some reason, tend not to pass scrutiny when the dual use test is applied. So we'll just have to see how things go. Sonny's having plenty of fun with his Small Time Toys, and there'll be less heartbreak or wallet-linked rage in case of breakage or equipment malfunction. But the quest will continue. Fitfully.

Insurance for infants

In the last few months, we've touched base with a couple of insurance agents, trying to see what sort of life or medical policy we should buy for Sonny.

Some folks might find it rather morbid to be talking about insuring an infant. But there's a definite logic to doing so. Most pertinently, insurance becomes increasingly expensive as we advance through life because the chances of something very serious happening to us increase over time. Which means, of course, that we are increasingly likely to slap our insurance company with a claim. AIG, AXA, Prudential and their like also take into account our prior medical history in deciding the premium (that is, the amount of money to be regularly paid to keep the policy from lapsing). If someone has what are called 'pre-existing medical conditions', these will affect either how much he pays or increase the likelihood that the company will decide it doesn't want to insure him at all. In the case of medical insurance, any such condition runs the risk of being excluded: If it sends you to hospital (or worse), not one red cent is paid out.

A baby starts off with a major advantage since he is much less likely to have any sort of adverse medical history: As a result, he's less likely to attract a stiff premium, or suffer exclusions. Once the policy takes effect, nasty surprises won't be a problem. That is, of course, unless the insurance company goes bust or there is some fine print that can be quoted and used to deny a claim. If you believe half the stuff to read on the Internet (use Mr Google liberally, but wear a bib to catch the spittle and invective that will spring from your screen), an insurance company is about as trustworthy as a car with no engine.

Having no background in finance ourselves, the best advice we've gleaned from our research is that it may be best to to opt for basic policies, with fewer bells and whistles, as a base. If you are one of those who likes having multiple policies, with an "investment-linked" component, cash bonus features and what have you, you might keep in mind that these will potentially erode your policy's subsidiary function as a form of forced, long-term savings.

Your best bet might just be asking around till you nail down an insurance agent that comes with multiple recommendations, and with whom you are comfortable discussing your options. These days, agents double up as financial advisers and will try and sell you any number of products. Those that don't seem to be trying to milk you for every spare dollar are the ones you want to give proper consideration. One last thing: Never lie about medical conditions. You can be found out - and the consequences won't be pretty.

Stroller: Danger on the left

You'd probably be bored stiff reading yet another post about a quirky young thing with a wandering attention span. Except we're not talking about Sonny this time - just the stroller that we've been using to ferry him around in.

Yes, our handy-dandy Maclaren Quest - let's use 'Mac', shall we, since there's something of the naughty boy about the contraption - is rather a prima donna. There's no denying that he's nifty: He has a marvellously tight turning circle and folds up with a friendly 'click'. Lightweight too. But Mac has a tendency to drift to the left. We'll be wheeling Sonny along, and suddenly realise that we've been veering off towards the rose bushes. We need to apply extra pressure on the right arm to keep our direction dead-ahead straight. It's even more dangerous when Pa snaps off one of his patented push-ahead-and-stroll-up moves. At that point, Mac's solo, and before he slows down, the stroller can spin quite a distance away from us - towards a drain, perhaps, or slope.

Now, since Mac's been with us for less than three months, you might suggest we just pop back to the retail outlet and have the staff there sort things out. But here's the tricky bit: Mac's leftist tendencies have a way of suddenly disappearing for days, leaving us scratching our heads. Pa has spent some time scrutinising Mac's wheels (not that Pa's much of a handyman), looking for wads of chewing gum or anything else that might impart occasional spin. Nothing has ever been found. Since we'd feel pretty foolish bringing in a stroller in apparent perfect condition to the shop, we're waiting for Mac's errant ways to become set in stone. But he keeps us guessing.

Mac's other quirk is a stiff neck, so that it's hard to get Sonny to lie back comfortably. There's a latch that needs to be clicked in order to maximise the reclining position and, for some reason, each time we fold and reopen the stroller, the position is reset to an uncomfortably highbacked one. Perhaps Mac likes to have us fumble about in his innards each time, or wants to reminds us who's really in the driving seat.

Not that we should mind too much. In the general sweep of life, after all, we're often in danger of forgetting who keeps things ticking over smoothly, whether it's the maid at home, the cleaners who keep our corridors and roads clean or the service staff in hotels. Mac allows us to dispense with lugging Sonny about in our arms while he slobbers over us, and lets us eat in peace while our son paws at Mac's canvas walls. All this, normally, without a squeak of complaint.

Though that could be just because Mac is so new his wheels don't need oiling yet.

New Mr Men characters, anyone?

The other day, Pa was visiting blogger Sydney's lively home base, Deadlines and Diapers, when he noticed the Little Miss Late logo on her sidebar. Turns out it was an in-joke of sorts between Sydney and her pals, but Pa was reminded of the enduring popularity of the Little Miss and Mr Men series, featuring characters named after sundry personal characteristics (hence Mr Lazy, Mr Uppity, Little Miss Wise et al).

No fewer than 45 Mr Men and 39 Little Miss titles have been published. Yet we suspect that anyone who's ever been a parent could cook up a few new characters. So here are two new and updated Mr Men, complete with plot outlines, distilled from the 14 weeks we've spent with Sonny:


(a) Mr Changeable

(inspired by Sonny's wild mood swings)

Mr Changeable, who lives in Alter Manor, takes drugs every few hours to keep his unpredictable temperament within controllable limits. But his friend Mr Clumsy comes to visit, and knocks his supply of pills into the fire. The story develops into a frantic dash for the nearest pharmacy, but before long Mr Changeable's moods begin to switch and succeed each other madly, leading to a series of detours and hairy encounters. It takes the combined efforts of Mr Impossible, Mr Happy and Mr Grumpy to steady Mr Changeable enough to get him to the local Boot's, where a happy ending reinforcing the importance of taking one's meds closes things off.

Visually, Mr Changeable is unlike all the Mr Men who've come before him, in that his essential features morph as his moods change. He can appear like a thunderstorm when unhappy, a huge smile when pleased and a pair of spectacles when meditative.

(b) Mr Whack

(inspired by Sonny's flailing, uncoordinated arms)

Mr Whack is a nice enough fellow. He has a decent job as the village telephonist, but he's always getting into trouble because he has no proper control of his arms. Someone will be talking to him, when - suddenly - his arm will swing out and (whack!) clock the unsuspecting conversation partner. A complete medical check-up at the local GP's has failed to explain why, so his neighbours are convinced he's doing it on purpose and shun poor Mr Whack.

One day, however, Mr Whack has a chat with Mr Clever, who suggests that he go to the big city and take an MRI. So begins Mr Whack's adventure. Along the way, he meets people whom he antagonises through ill-timed slaps and grabs. He reaches the city with a posse hot on his heels, but after many close shaves reaches The Big Hospital - where doctors put him through his paces, scan and diagnose him and are able to cure him.

However, the story ends on a bittersweet note: Mr Whack isn't insured, so he has to sell his house to pay for the bills. Luckily, he moves in with one of the few neighbours who's never avoided him - and indeed always sort of understood him - the accident-prone Mr Bump.

Anyone else have a Mr Man or Little Miss to proffer?

Diaper mountain

The math is sobering - and a bit stomach-churning.

To start with, there are 300 units in our apartment development. Perhaps 250 are occupied by families with at least one child still in diapers (yes, we're a young lot).

Sonny, who's hit the seven-week mark, gets through between five and eight sets of diapers a day. If we take six as an average for diaper-users, that means (250 X 6 =) 1,500 soiled nappies are discarded, every day, at just our tiny condo community. Give it a mere month, and we'd have our very own mountain (30 X 1,500 = 45,000) of these partially non-biodegradable bundles which, over 400 years on, will likely still be clogging some landfill.

On recovering from these back-of-the-envelope calculations, and after an Internet sweep that further promoted at least trying cloth nappies, we decided to take the plunge. Well, more like dip our toe in. We had earlier bought a stack of reusable diapers, but never gotten round to using them (except as makeshift blankets and swaddle cloths). So we resolved to use at least one a day.

And it was yesterday morning, in fact, that Mum first folded and refolded the square piece of cloth, popped in the liner, then wrapped the result around Sonny's midriff like a zhong zi (glutinous rice dumpling). It looked amusing and lasted an hour before it had to be speedily changed, already damp and with the colour changing alarmingly.

We know, we know: There are higher-tech, more absorbent reusable diapers on the market. But for now, we'll try to stick with what we have, and see how things go. Thoughts from anyone with 'nappy testimony', it must be said, would be especially welcome. We're not expecting to realise any financial savings from our cautious approach. But, hey, every little blow for the environment - and every dent in that diaper mountain - ought to help, right?

Showdown: Sarong vs Snugli

Call it a clash of two eras, of old against new. Few things have been more effective in pacifying Sonny than Mum's placing him in her sarong, or cloth carrying sling. In a recent post, we exulted in its effectiveness - but we're not putting all our eggs in just one basket (or carrier technology).

Today, therefore, Pa tried out his Snugli, which looks like a rucksack worn front-to-back, with slits for Sonny's limbs to protrude from. This is modernity we're talking about, when compared to the time-worn sarong, and it certainly has its positives. For starters, Pa will look a lot less ridiculous than if he had a cloth bundle crossways across his chest: The sarong is traditionally for women, while the Snugli comes with no such cultural baggage. It is also more hardy, being made of fancy fabrics, and boasts all sorts of straps and buckles to improve the ride.

That said, the first Snugli trial - a fortnight back - had ended ignominiously; Pa spent an eternity fiddling with the straps and buckles, and while Sonny did not bawl out disapproval, he did leave a liquidy deposit that short-circuited the no longer dry run. Today, again, the buckles and straps were confounding. Over a couple of hours, Sonny broke out into tears a time or two, seemed at times uncomfortably squeezed out of shape and also found altogether too many jutting-out bits to suck at, or knock against.

Meanwhile, more strengths of the sarong seemed to emerge in counterpoint. Being cloth, it is more forgiving of tropical heat. It more effectively swaddles the child in a comforting embrace and converts with a swish of cloth into a modesty-protecting breastfeeding bib.

Still, as Mum and Pa become more practised in using sarong and Snugli, the balance might shift. The buckles and straps will cease to confound, an older Sonny may prefer the ergonomics of the Snugli. Perhaps. Anything might happen. It might snow in the Sahara.

Yes, our sympathies are admittedly more with the sarong (and no, we have no stake here, no investment in a sarong-making company). There's always a kick to be had seeing the upstart outmatched, the old-timer confirmed in his relevance.

Even if it's not quite yet a wrap.