Alphabet Kid emerges

It has been said that young children have a prodigious memory, learning at a rate that will never again be equalled in their lives. Everything from language, social rules and power structures to basic math and motor skills gets assimilated at warp speed.

Which may all be true, though as far as we can tell Sonny - who's punched through to almost 15 months with us - is devoting much of his memory power to the alphabet. To be exact, the alphabet chart that Mum drew up eons ago and then hung on the wall. The little fella's devotion to the letters is remarkable: At least once a day, he will demand to be lifted up to it and to chant through from A to K (beyond which point things still get hazy) as he chirrups his mangled responses to "[Fill in letter] is for...?]" Thus, he knows that 'A' is for 'air-pull' (apple), 'B' is for 'bole' (ball) and is for 'cap' (cap). Admittedly, it isn't really clear if he's just guessing ('D', which is supposed to elicit the response of 'Desk', perpetually draws forth 'Dett') and the pronunciation is often comical: 'I' is, apparently, for 'I-kim' (ice cream).

The strongest proof of Sonny's alphabet-mania is the way it can be exploited to disrupt one of his sobbing fits. If he's noisily protesting the snatching-away of some toy, recitation of the alphabet-object pairings will result in a remarkable suspension of bawling - at least long enough for him to wheeze out 'air-pull', before teary service is resumed. At times, the trick whisks away the crying jag altogether - and Sonny will toddle over to the chart and begin to agitate for a run-through.

It is obviously far too early for us to conclude that the little fella will be particularly attached to words and their meanings (even though both his parents are writers of a sort). It could be he simply enjoys the singsong nature of the alphabet 'game', as he may conceive of it: All the serious pedagogical activity that we attempt to interest young children in is probably seen in their eyes simply as 'fun'. Or, in some cases, 'not fun' - at which point the child will brutally end his engagement and scamper off in search of something else to do.

In the present case, we're hoping Sonny will retain his interest until he's gone from 'L' to 'Z'. Maybe after that, we could work a bit on his pronunciation...

The Case of the Two Sonnys

This is going to sound pretty wild, but we're beginning to suspect that there are actually two Sonnys running about, substituting for each other at critical points of each day.

Here's why this bizarre notion has occurred to us: When our son gets to the infant care centre, his behaviour apparently changes drastically. For instance...

(i) At home, he prefers to crawl from place to place, albeit with a unique high-backed gait. Yet when he gets to the centre, he transforms into an inveterate walker. The staff uniformly report that Sonny toddles upright for minutes at a time, confidently cackling as he shows off to all and sundry.

(ii) As far as we can tell, Sonny has a vocabulary limited to 'Mum-mum' (which refers to both his mother and food of any description), 'flower' (go figure) and a few other snatches. At the centre, however, he somehow accesses a hefty vocabulary and is able to count from one to two, identify various parts of his anatomy and even sit on demand.

(iii) Come mealtime, Sonny apparently prefers to hold his water bottle by himself and slurp away contentedly. At least, the Sonny-at-the-centre does. The 'home edition', on the other hand, insists that one of his parents wait on him and play water-carrier - though he is as likely to disregard H2O altogether and imperiously call for good old mother's milk instead.

You get the general idea. The little fella has two separate personalities, which assert themselves respectively when he is with his parents and the infant care staff. Which leads us to suspect that he has already learned that grand old secret of human existence: Get away with as little work as you can and slosh around in as much luxury as you can insist on. Presumably, the tough professionals at the centre are strict and unbending - insisting that Sonny pull his own weight and recall lessons taught with fidelity. Mum and Pa, however, are considerably more indulgent - so the little monster cuts himself some slack and operates at 'idling' power settings.

This may seem rather amusing now, when he can't get into much more trouble than tossing raisins to the floor or upsetting his water cup. But the stakes obviously rise with time. We must therefore come up with a strategy to run a tighter ship and try and merge the two Sonnys together. A psychiatrist's help is probably unnecessary - we think we know what our crafty 13-month-old is up to - though the little fella's divergent personalities is driving us a little batty.

Scourge of the babbler

There is, as far as we know - and this, following an exhaustive Internet scan - no such word in the English language as "Deyk". In fact, there is no word in Mandarin, Malay or German that corresponds to the sound - which is to exhaust Mum's and Pa's collective linguistic competence.

Yet strangely, the little fella's favourite utterance has been, for the past few weeks, "deyk". Since he's a week shy of hitting that first birthday, it would have been nice if he were now going "Mamma" or "Pa" or even "Confucius" with monotonous regularity. Yet for reasons unclear to us, "deyk" has captured his loyalty. Here's a typical example of how it is deployed, in all its apparently vast flexibility:

Sonny (grabbing a box of tissues and shaking it vigorously): Deyk. Deyk-doo Deyk.
Mum (indulgently): What have you here, Sonny? Now don't play with that. Have this toy instead.
Sonny (grumpily accepting the exchange): Deyk deyk. Deedee deyk.
Pa: Look, what is the little fella trying to say? Can't he just say, "Toy" or something intelligible?
Sonny (noticing Pa's button and beginning to paw at it): Goo deeeeyk. Deyk?
Pa: Speak properly. None of this "deyk" business. And...
Sonny (yanking the button off): Deeyk doogle. Deeeeyk deeeyk deyk.
Mum: That's pretty impressive finger dexterity.
Pa: It's not impressive. Give me back my button! And for heavens sake say something that I can...
Sonny: Deyk. Deyk deyk? Gum gum deyk.
Mum: Hey, it's actually rather catchy. Deyk. deyk. Ha ha ha. Deyk...
Pa: Aargh, the world's gone mad.
Sonny & Mum: Deyk. deyk.

Anyway, you get the general idea. To rub salt into the wound, Sonny has even forgotten the first few letters of the alphabet that he had managed to learn three-odd months ago. He's also firmly resisted all efforts to teach him some regular English words, though he has on occasion given voice to random "Pa"s and "Ma"s just to keep his parents in suspense. We're spooked enough to suspect that the little fella may be perfectly able to belt out regular words, but is simply of a mind to drag out the drama, keeping us on tenterhooks so that we continue to shower excessive praise over the odd word thrown our way.

Meanwhile, though, if anyone knows of any language in which "deyk" actually means something, do let us know. Perhaps Sonny has a mystery foreign friend and is already fluently speaking some exotic tongue. Wildly unlikely, of course. But then again, so is this weird explosion of "deyk"s.

Round the world in 5 seconds

Toddlers are notoriously curious, and Sonny not only takes the cake in that department, he could single-handedly supply a whole confectioner's. So it's no surprise he's developed his own unique way of quickly taking stock of the world around him, to more promptly identify points for further exploration.

Typically, when plonked into a less than totally familiar environment, the little fella will cross his legs and flex them so that he begins to bounce in a jittery 360-degree revolution. He does this very efficiently, his eyes shrewdly taking in the environs as he rotates. He can even multi-task, perhaps munching at a plastic cup he has filched from some tray, or dramatically waving a walking stick snatched from a stand.

Once the grand tour is complete, Sonny will have gained a grasp of all nooks, hidden crannies or concealed corners worthy of thorough ransacking. Without fail, these will include any place potentially dangerous to a toddler, such as a live power socket with many appliances attached, drawers that can easily be opened and then slammed into young fingers, especially dirty areas that have escaped cleaning and any heavy objects that might be accidentally toppled - causing destruction of expensive antiques or damage to undersized noggins.


As a result of this, Mum and Pa have a painfully wrought relationship with Sonny's round-the-world scan'. On the one hand, it's pretty amusing: A toddler doing a full-circuit while sitting upright earns a few laughs every time. On the other hand, it is the harbinger of nightmarish chases and grab-the-Sonny activities as he plunges after each danger spot, seeking out a new one the moment he is foiled or headed off his original target. Since Mum and Pa have arrived in Malaysia for a weeklong break with Pa's mother, the little fella has suddenly acquired vast reserves of fresh energy. We're not quite sure where from, but he's scampering tirelessly from cranny to nook, pausing only to scan for more places to explore.

At the moment, we're at wit's end as to how to corral these surges of enthusiasm. Undoubtedly, it is better to have an insatiably curious child than a listless, inattentive one. But having to deal with a toddler with his very own Instant Investigative Technique - his spin-round-the-world - is a bit much. Anyone with tips or suggestions on how to slow the rampaging Sonny down are very welcome to write in. And please do so yesterday...

Our little cleaner

A number of entries in this series of often-disjointed posts have to do with tidying up after some typhoon-like mess wrought by Sonny, or with salvaging a situation turned parlous thanks to his roving adventures.

Last week, however, came a stunning twist: There he was, actually helping us clean up. It happened on a day much like any other. Sonny had ruined our neat row of mineral water bottles by playing his own version of ninepins, had scattered some toys and was otherwise working manfully to meet his quota of chaos. Then he saw a discarded wet wipe that Mum had left about (possibly after being drawn away to respond to some Sonny-related emergency). The little fella picked it up, toddled over to our TV console and commenced a diligent wiping of the surface.

Mum and Pa were both present and managed to avoid fainting, crying out in shock or otherwise overreacting. Instead, we both rushed forward to unleash great blasts of "positive reinforcement". That is to say, even if it was a completely random activity on his part, we had - right then and there - a chance to imprint it onto his neural pathways. If we made enough of a fuss over him, praising him to the skies and clapping madly, he might begin to regularly scrub and rub for fun. In the same spirit, Mum has been played the exciting game, 'Put The Stuff Back To Where You Found It' with the little fella, and Sonny has shown some promise as a practitioner.

Let's come clean here: We're hoping that, in the not-too-distant future, our son will be building his character the old-fashioned way, by helping out with a good number of household chores. We've no intention of turning him into a cruelly-oppressed slave, but even a child of - oh, say - four can make himself useful by washing the dishes. Then there's the sweeping and the dusting and the laundry... he needn't be the only one saddled with these chores, mind you, but he can certainly take on his share of them. But more important than that, we want him to be doing so voluntarily - and how better to manage that than by introducing the key aspects of it when he's just a wee tot so he can learn them as play?

Some folks might cynically dismiss us as heartless monsters bent on squeezing every bit of utility out of our child, perhaps even defacing his childhood and robbing him of innocence. That is just so much hooey. Child labour is bad, but a labouring child is one who learns discipline and the joy of hard work.

Know the difference. Ahem.

'Evil Crasher' makes its debut

Can children scheme to inflict pain on their parents, and make sure they get away with it?

Such dark musings are in the wind after Sonny came up with what Pa is calling the 'Evil Crasher' game earlier today. The little fella first waits until a parent is lying on the floor. Then he'll toddle along and, using the unsuspecting adult as a support, lever himself into a standing position. Releasing his arms, he rears up dramatically, then collapses onto his victim's stomach/ groin/other sensitive part of the anatomy. The exercise is then repeated.

Naturally, there's a built-in justification for this cruel game: The little fella is "learning to stand upright and walk". The adult would feel rather guilty about disrupting this essential process - and ends up gritting his teeth and absorbing the punishing blows. However, it's just as likely, or so Pa suspects, that the little fella - unhappy at the slow delivery of food, or lack of slavish attention or some such imagined slight - is simply getting a bit of his own back.

'Evil Crasher' actually features a further embedded excuse: It can pass for a "bonding experience" between parent and child. This, in fact, had been Mum's initial reaction ("How's the bonding going?", she had blithely asked Pa as his body was slammed again and again). After all, the little fella is smiling beatifically throughout and exhibits utter absorption in the activity, in which the parent is an integral part. And how heavy can a not-quite-10 month-old be anyway, an unsympathetic observer might respond to Pa's whimpers? (To which the answer, apparently, is "pretty darn heavy").

Anyway, Sonny spent no more than 10 minutes perfecting his technique with Evil Crasher. Enough for the first day, he probably figured. He had quickly worked out how to stand as upright as possible, so there would be maximal distance between himself and the target (Pa) and so maximal acceleration. He also learned how to vary his arm position at point of impact, presumably to keep Pa guessing and to hammer at different pain points each time. All of which dredges up yet further excuses for his wicked conduct: He is simply "learning to assess and improve his control of his body", his lawyer might be able to say, a well as "getting a good work-out". With so many babies overweight these days, who would deny Sonny his chance to sweat away some calories playing bouncy-bounce?

He can even learn his numbers the next day, with a round of "Count the bruises" with Pa. How charming!

Sullen Sonny versus Cunning Camera

It seems just a day ago, though it's probably a few months now, that we were congratulating ourselves on Sonny's newfound ability to recognise a few key people in his life. We're referring to his parents, the staff at the infant care centre and - with a little help - his grandparents. But our dirty little secret is that the little fella obviously established, earlier than any of the foregoing, a relationship with our camera. An adversarial one, at that.

No, that's not quite right: It should be 'any camera'. Somehow, Sonny grasped before he could crawl that any number of cameras would be pointed at him with the avowed aim of capturing him in the midst of smiling. Well, we don't know whether he'd rather retain licensing control of his facial representations or just enjoys squaring off against an opponent. In any case, he simply refuses to be photographed looking cheery. It's not as though he's a typically sullen chap. On the contrary: These days, he's perpetually breaking into cackles and favouring us with flashes of good-naturedness.

But whip out a camera and suddenly the expression changes. Out comes a pout. Seriousness reorders his facial muscles and reconfigures his mien. In the two seconds it takes one to aim a point-and-click and press the button, the little fella goes from sunny to dour - or at least studious. The number of photos we have of him actually smiling favours unfavourably with the number of times we've been pleased with our stock portfolio's performance this year.

By now, it's hard to deny that amping up mere swiftness in pulling off the money shot has failed against his impressive facial reflexes. We haven't quite upped the ante yet and tried more sophisticated techniques like disguising our cameras as bowls of porridge and the like. But that's probably the next thing to do, along with employing diversionary tactics: 'Look there, Sonny...' (click). Of course, if we pursue this battle too zealously, and make it too clear that we're winning, we run the risk of ruining his mood and actually slashing the smile-quotient of our days.

That wouldn't really be worth it...

Crazed Crawler I: Reign of terror

We're terribly sorry. We really are.

Being journalists at heart, we've tried to keep this blog current, so readers can stay abreast of developments with Sonny. But we've just failed miserably. Not three days ago (click here), we reported on how the little fella's preferred method of moving around was a rather shambolic half-roll, half-crawl combo that was effective but less than pretty. The problem is, our fingers were still throbbing from the furious typing that produced that post when everything suddenly changed.

All at once, Sonny finally mastered the full art of infant crawling. There was no slow progression ala a stereotypical martial-arts movie, in which he would have slowly developed from novice, to apprentice crawler, to half-way competent, to adept, and so forth. Instead, it was a case of him being hardly able to string together a couple of steps one day, then - and we do not exaggerate the suddenness of this - the next, the right blend of foot, leg, chest and arm strength being mastered to a 'd'. There he was scuttling along as though he'd been doing it all his life, with a smooth technique and rapid clip that left us speechless.

It didn't take long before his new mastery was yoked to a burning curiosity that had him barging into chairs in our hall, slurping at the dirty pedals of our piano and advancing with zero discretion towards razor-sharp table edges. Each night, Mum was run ragged picking the little monster up and redepositing him on the mattress, only to have him zip off again with a Red Indian war yell.

Today, Sonny was brought over to Mum's parents' pad for the first time - and promptly wore out, if not his welcome, then certainly his grandparents. The initial response from the two senior citizens was a very warm one: They couldn't wait for Sonny to demonstrate his new crawling competence, and dangled various objects to try and entice him into action. Mum and Pa, seeing an opening, absented themselves for a mere 45 minutes to make a quick visit to the nearby library. By the time we returned, Sonny's grandsires were all but gasping with exhaustion, tuckered out from trying to keep the young 'un from bouncing off the walls as he roamed at will.

You might, perceptively, opine that it all has to end in tears. And you'd be right. This crazed crawling monster simply had to be brought under control before a major accident happened. In tomorrow's post, we'll reveal how we tamed the beast... and at what piteous cost.

Silent cry

There are little tragedies, often preventable, happening all around us; calls for help that we do not hear because we're too cocooned in our own worries.

Actually, none of this sententious tosh is relevant to what happened just a few minutes ago, except that it also featured a Silent Cry. We'd just gotten home from an excursion and were pottering around, on engrossed in our domestic errands, when we suddenly realised that Sonny was uttering regular yelps that seemed halfway between howl of anger and peevish whimper. As we drew near, however, something very dramatic - and completely unprecedented - happened.

His mouth opened into a frozen expression of great anguish. His neck elongated and his eyes shuttered as though in the throes of huge torment. Yet not a sound, neither peep nor gasp, issued from the little fella. We both stared. Pa picked Sonny up. The seconds ticked by, and still, there was not a sound.

Mum and Pa were having hasty consultations. "Is this crying?", he whispered. "I think he's crying... look, there's some clear liquid pooling at his ear lobes," she replied. "Yes, but I don't see any teardrops or tear-tracks near Sonny's eyes," he countered, adding: "And in any case, who turned the sound off?"

We both agreed that whatever was going was almost cartoonishly dramatic. And still, as Pa clutched our six-month-old baby, he was frozen into an endless second of silence. It was as though someone had hit the 'Pause' button, except we weren't characters in a DVD. Or maybe Sonny had somehow been transformed into one, going by his stock-stillness. We were beginning to wonder if, completely out of the blue, he had gone utterly crazy.

After a good 10 seconds had gone by, there was a shudder. A great big tear rolled down. And things returned to something approaching normal. Sonny became crying wildly, Mum hurried to supply more milk while Pa collapsed into the computer chair, asking himself wildly, "Will anyone believe us if I blog about this?" It was one of those "lost-time" episodes that people who believe in extra-terrestrials and flying saucers like to talk about. Except it had happened to our son.

As these words are typed, the little fella has fallen into a deep sleep. Maybe the imminent eruption of his teeth has played havoc with his hormones, or psychic wiring, or whatever keeps him tethered to infant normalcy. At all events, if this Silent Cry episode recurs, we'll have to start doing some serious research into what's going on, which should involve reading medical texts... and probably watching selected episodes of The X-Files.

Bad baby: The camouflaged enemy

In the world today, the threat of Al-Qaeda is ever-present: A cunning, ever-changing foe that continually evolves new ways to strike with impunity at its targets. But the same description applies to our dealings with our infant son, who is about a dozen days away from reaching the six-month mark.

You may think we're exaggerating. But as Pa presses his jihad against Sonny's habit of sticking thumb into mouth ('It's just not hygienic!', he howls), we've seen things that have led us to question accepted orthodoxy on how quickly babies can adapt and learn. By now, Sonny - at least when fully awake - knows that open digit-sucking will bring a furious, special-forces-style response from his father: With a barked 'No', adult hands will surge in to harshly separate thumb from mouth. Sonny's first response was to attempt to fight force with force: He would try mightily to keep his digit from being wrested from its saliva-filled cocoon. But, of course, Pa always won these tussles. So he withdrew from open conflict, as reported in 'Our little terrorist understands threats'.

But Sonny then went the guerrilla route instead, with a series of strategies that stressed guile. First came what the anti-terrorist authorities (translation: Pa) dubbed 'the Curl'. The little fella would first reconnoitre to establish where prying eyes were. Then he would roll himself away from them, using as his body as an observational barrier so he could suck his thumb unseen. The strategy has caused consternation among Sonny's grandparents (consider them the innocent civilians that are always caught up in any war). These days, Pa is automatically suspicious whenever he sees Sonny begin to contort his body in such a way as to conceal his mouth.

So the cunning little thing has moved on. These days, his camouflage is more subtle: He will hold a cloth book, or some other bulky object, close to his face, as though nibbling, so his thumb can sneak in surreptitiously for quick contacts. This is considerably harder to spot, since Sonny is forever raising some toy or other to his mouth. Like any smart guerrilla commander, he's also keeping the enemy guessing by widening the range of his depredations: He's taken to sucking his toes as well, arching his lower body dramatically upwards so his mouth comes within striking distance.

Most effectively, however, Sonny is waging the war for 'hearts and minds', as they say in the counter-insurgency trade. He wails piteously when forced to yield, sending trails of tears flowing to accompany the protest. As observed in passing in 'When Mum's a bad influence', he's more brazen about sucking in the open when Mum (or any of his grandparents) is around: Pa thinks the little fella is deliberately provoking a crackdown so as to win sympathy. By now, the anti-terrorist authorities are so assailed by demands that they "at least let the poor thing suck until he falls asleep" that they have beaten a tactical retreat.

The little fella's a veritable Ho Chi Minh in diapers.

What's the fun in pretending to walk?

Sonny, at five months, likes to walk. He likes to hop upwards from perch to ever-higher perch, and chuckles as he skips from foot to foot.

All right, since Sonny hasn't even mastered crawling yet, he can't be gambolling about as described. Not unassisted. For the little fella's favourite game these days is what Pa calls 'Walk Walk'. He'll look at Pa, a wide smile forming, and raise both hands in unmistakable invitation. Pa grips him just below the armpits so Sonny can be raised to a standing position. His feet will begin to hunt for a grip and, with Pa's help, he starts to stride forward, his legs firmly pushing downwards in turn, as his eyes flash from side to side.

One might wonder why we don't play 'Crawl crawl' instead, but Sonny doesn't seem to be signalling that he wants help with his efforts there. Not that he isn't trying; as we've reported in multiple posts, he's forever exerting himself in an effort to propel himself forward on his chest, and can already do it when asleep (yep, that's right: Click here for details). But he doesn't seem to be getting any joy out of it; rather, it comes across as a grim but necessary effort. He'll emit loud yells from time to time and even howls of frustration as he fails to close the two-centimetre gap that keeps a toy just out of his grasp.

Why, then, has Sonny already set his sights on walking? We're figuring that humans are just built that way: Instead of focusing on and savouring that which is within reach (such as beginning to walk), we want that which is outside the realm of the possible, too pricey for our budget or impractical given other constraints (like striding along). The current American housing calamity is just this home truth spun out into a massive object lesson: Too many families took on too heavy a debt load so they could enjoy a house that's unnecessarily luxurious, or funded spending sprees backed by the value of a property they assumed could only be worth ever more.

None of this means Pa plans to curtail Sonny's happy Walk Walks through some misguided fanaticism. In fact, perhaps he'll become so enamoured of ambulation that he'll insist on walking rather than crawling, as apparently some babies do. Truth be told, this is sort of a secret wish of ours: It would then take him a lot longer before he'll be able to get around, meaning we'll have a longer reprieve before he becomes a bigger pest.

But we're probably hoping for too much here...

Sleep-crawler alert!

When Sonny's awake, he's a flop. When effectively asleep, he's a champ.

We're talking here about crawling. That's right, as the little fella completes a round five months with us, he's often to be found trying desperately to propel himself along on his own steam. He flips his body about haphazardly, his legs pedal away at an invisible bicycle - yet for all the effort put in, there's little to no forward motion chalked up.

But after Sonny's given up and drifted off, then when he's just returning once more to the world of the wide-awake, something bizarre happens. Somehow, he finds the right height and angles for his pedal-action, and - as Mom and Pa look on in something akin to horror - begins scampering along with some speed, traversing the length of his mattress in seconds. All this, with his eyes shut.

Sleep-crawling is not something we've come across in our childcare-related reading. It stands to reason that Sonny will next learn, and soon, to crawl while awake: Though we used to dread the prospect of his curiosity then sending him into harm's way, now we can't wait for him to restrict his explorations to his eyes-open hours. For, of course, he's presently an even greater danger to himself than ever: Blindly whizzing along, he could quite easily slam into the piano, a wall or the TV console, depending on the direction that he takes off in. At least, were he awake, he might at least try to avoid obstacles in his path.

It's tempting to see here a child-level instantiation of a more general truth: All too often, we blunder our about wreaking havoc through being unaware of the dangers around us. It's a charge we might level against ignorant politicians or policymakers, for instance. But it is true that sometimes, were our eyes so wide open that we could take in the full range of risks, threats and potential barriers before us, we would be too discouraged or plain terrified to actually get going. Brash young upstarts can achieve outperform wised-up veterans precisely because it hasn't yet gotten into their heads that such-and-such a target cannot reasonably be achieved, or that a certain risk is simply too frightening to run.

So sleep-crawl away, Sonny, if that's the only way you can come ultimately to crawl while fully conscious. It's even rather amusing to watch a half-asleep baby on the march. But it's a joke that could grow really old, really soon.

The sudden sucking frenzy

The sucking frenzy had broken out on a quiet weekend night, with Mum out with friends and Pa warming up a nice bottle of milk for Sonny.

It had been some weeks since we'd had to deploy the bottle on the little fella, but Pa wasn't expecting difficulties: After all, shouldn't our son be thoroughly accustomed by now to bottle-feeding at the infant care centre? But as Pa cradled Sonny and prepared to manoeuvre the bottle into his mouth, things went crazy in a hurry.

Sonny's hands lashed out to grasp the bottle, like the tentacles of an attacking octopus. Before Pa could react, the little monster had his mouth latched on to the teat, and fearsomely loud sucking sounds issued. The fella was drinking in air, as best as Pa could tell! Frantically, Pa tried to lean Sonny back and position the bottle at an angle that would allow milk to flow in. Bad move: Sonny's mouth was detached from the teat. Instantly, he began to thrash about as though zapped by a Taser gun. His hands yanked at the bottle, but so clumsily that the teat swished at his nose and eyes rather than docking with his lips.

After a several seconds of this domestic comedy routine, Pa finally rammed the bottle into Sonny's mouth. Briefly, order was restored to the world. The little fella noisily gulped down milk. But then he released and began bawling tragically. It appeared he was unhappy that he wasn't being allowed to drink milk "his own way", and would rather go without than suffer the indignity of being force-fed.

Following this disconcerting incident, a full investigation was launched. It turned out that infant care staff had told Mum some time ago that they were teaching Sonny how to feed on his own. He's just a week shy now of hitting five full months and therefore, in his caregivers' judgement, ready to embrace the initial taste of independence. It would appear, however, that Sonny is presently caught in a sort of milky no-man's-land. Left to his own devices, his arms and hands are not yet strong or skilled enough for him to grasp a milk bottle, then raise it to his lips in such a way as to draw milk into his mouth. Yet he clearly so savours the illusion of liberty that Pa's attempts to feed him in the old manner of positioning the bottle over his head would no longer do. No, Sonny wanted to have some control over the proceedings - even if it meant sucking in air.

Anyway, we're now shopping for age-appropriate drink receptacles so as to respect the young fella's burgeoning need to assert himself. Some containers come with straws, for instance, so that his penchant for enthusiastic sucking might be put to good use. In the meantime, luckily, Sonny 2.0 hasn't yet manifested any bizarre new preferences when being breastfed by Mum.

Heaven knows what might be percolating in his weird little mind.

Our baby, our balloon

That babies "grow very fast" is not a particularly original observation. But our baby seems to grow, then ungrow, then grow, then ungrow...

Many weeks ago, we blogged that Sonny was getting rather round (click here to read that post). However, the young fella has since been behaving like a balloon: Some days, he seems to have inflated as though someone had blown air into him; other days, he looks somehow slimmer, as though the balloon had sprung a leak. This morning was an air-in day: As Pa was handing Sonny over to the folks at the infant care centre, he was struck by how roly-poly our son appeared to be. His cheeks were round and juicy and his drumstick thighs ready for the barbecue. Yet just a week or so ago, he'd been looking positively lean.

Could this be? Sonny, who's less than a fortnight away from starting his sixth month with us, seems to specialise in implausible growth patterns. Mum has an even more extreme observation to report: Every other day, she will tell Pa, straight-faced, that Sonny has "grown overnight". If this were true for each time she's voiced this, and even if we assumed the tiniest of mini-upsizings, Sonny would be busting the ceiling and weighing more than his parents. Yet we know that he's not really a giant baby: There's another infant, more or less his contemporary at the infant care centre, who's as swollen as a melon and so fat he gives Pa mild nightmares. Yet there's something vaguely unearthly about the way Sonny's plumpness quotient seems to fluctuate.

Mind you, during our monthly visits to the polyclinic, when the nurse takes her measurements, the results show a regular, unremarkable increase. So all's well, physically. We're familiar with the idea that babies do not grow at a slow but steady pace, but rather in spurts, with 'lull growth periods' in between. So we have to assume that he's entering - perhaps unsteadily - spurt mode. Two related factors may further explain his recent 'expansion': A lingering cold, that has been bothering him for weeks, seems to have been finally banished. He also seems to have recovered his appetite for milk, which had had slackened off at the end of July (as reported in 'Less food, more worry').

Maybe we should be worrying instead about Pa's own weight, which has been creeping up rather more steadily...

Sonny the Showboat

It's premature to forecast a great future for Sonny in the entertainment industry, but he's certainly beginning to show some talent in the scene-stealing department.

Yesterday, we brought him to the polyclinic for his immunisation shot. He's had a slight runny nose, so we thought we'd double-check with the doctor to make sure it was still fine to proceed with the injection. Still, our four-month-old seemed pretty much in the pink of health - until, that is, we were called into the doctor's room.

Suddenly, as though someone had yelled 'Action' and clapped one of those wooden 'Scene I, Take I' boards, Sonny began to sniffle furiously. The doctor looked up in alarm. Right on cue, Sonny commenced wheezing. Oh, how he wheezed. It sounded as though there was enough phlegm in his lungs to float a small boat. To cap the performance, he eked out a heroic smile, that of an unprotesting martyr to the cause of inoculation. Mum felt as though she had been rebuked for daring to bring this obviously sick thing in the hope of inflicting further injected pain.

Anyway, the doctor suggested very politely that we consider not proceeding till the dear child was better. Out we went, suitably chastened, but you more or less know what happened once we left the room, don't you? Yes, someone we couldn't somehow hear shouted 'Cut', and Sonny's wheezing and snot-blasting ceased instantly. He was gurgling as though the Oscar was his. Which was probably what we deserved, since he quickly switched to his 'I'm so cute, see my dimpled smile' routine, which harvested three 'How adorables' from assorted strangers within an hour.

In a way, though, Sonny has overplayed his hand. It's impossible to say whether he just felt like showing off, really didn't like the idea of a needle being stuck in his bottom (unlikely, you say?) or was coincidentally going through an innocent wheezing/sniffling fit (even more unlikely!). Pa, especially, has always suspected that the young fella was showboating when crying away at being deprived of a thumb to suck, or adult to beam at. Now, the evidence is overwhelming: After that little performance at the doctor's , every exclamation, outburst or pleading session will be tainted with the possibility that it's just a bit of masterful acting.

You've outsmarted yourself, buster!

Four animals in a baby

Pa was chatting with his mother over the phone when she suddenly said: "He sounds like a cat!"

Sonny, who was a meter or two from Pa, had decided to commence bawling - a sound which has of late gone up a register, so as to indeed resemble a kitty's wail. A chorus line's worth of felines, at times, going by how long Sonny can keep at it. He can even fling his irritatingly sharp nails about, in a passable imitation of a cat's unsheathed claws. But the thing is, his repertoire is a little more extensive than that: The little fella could mimic half the denizens of Old McDonald's Farm on his own.

Animal impression number two, for instance, is on display when our young 'un starts feeding off Mum. He's become noisy as a pig at the trough these days, with occasional snorting and gulps as he pulls down the milk. He'll drink too fast, stop to cough and spew out droplets, then set to once more, his fists bunched up and getting in the way like little trotters.

After sating his hunger, Sonny has become especially keen to play with his parents, cracking wide smiles and oozing enthusiasm. In fact, when in winsome mode, he morphs into a frisky puppy. His eyes go large and pleading, like a pet from central casting, his body shudders with eagerness to be stroked. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging six ways from Sunday. At times, his enthusiasm so overflows that Sonny suddenly chokes up milk before we can even pick him up.

Most recently, he's added chicken to his range. He's learning to crawl, you see, but not getting far at the moment. The best he can do, while on all fours, is to valiantly raise his head high, then start to literally peck at the floor as his limbs try in vain to gain traction. Bop! Bop! Bop!, goes his head - luckily, on our trusty mattress - his whole body convulsing with effort. In fact, Sonny's pecking routine can kick in when we are holding him too: For some reason (rather like a fowl who's spotted some corn on the floor), he'll suddenly begin bopping away at our shoulder and chin.

Anyway, we might start a pool on what animal he'll next try to imitate. Pa's guess is a worm, when Sonny succeeds in 'crawling'. Wordsworth once wrote of a young child:

with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part.

But he can't have been thinking of animals!

From Whiplash to Olympic gymnastics

Watching the Olympic gymnasts spin and somersault madly on TV brings to mind Sonny's latest, and scariest, parent-torture trick: The Whiplash.

We'll be carrying him in our arms, peaceably working out the latest diaper bill, and Sonny will be deceptively quiet. Perhaps he'll scrutinise his knuckles. Then, suddenly, his entire upper body will bob slightly before flipping fiercely downward. We'll feel the jerk and for a second, it will feel as though Sonny is about to pop out of our embrace and smash to the unyielding concrete.

So far, that worst-case scenario hasn't come to pass. But the young fella's face will lend up perpendicular to the ground, flat against our midriffs and bouncing slightly. He's done it a few times now, and twice over the weekend. Yet Sonny doesn't tear up or even look concerned after these Whiplash demonstrations. As we desperately haul him up and examine him for signs that his upper body might detach or his eyeballs might slip out, he'll gaze wisely at us, a tad disapprovingly. As though to say, why are these adults making such a to-do over a little move like that? Just a little flexing, keeping myself limber: I'm 10 days away from hitting the four-month mark and we gymnasts have to start early, you know!

Of course, we already know Sonny can easily contort himself into a teardrop shape when stuffed into Mum's sling (click here for our post on this ability, though the sling is probably not up there with the pommel horse or rings as standard gym apparatus). So it shouldn't have surprised us that he can do the Whiplash without ill effect. But we're already clutching him extra-carefully and may deploy Mac the stroller more frequently. Who's to say he won't get a little too enthusiastic and spring completely from our grasp - with no foam mattress to break his fall, unlike with real gymnasts? And even these top tumblers occasionally fall from the balance beam, or fumble their vaults, or whatever we call these foul-ups.

Sonny, why not try some infant version of golf instead?

Sharing hobbies with Sonny

We were reading Audrey's wise words on bonding with one's teenagers (click here for the post, on her 'Parenting Tips and Ideas'), and how parents should share an interest in their children's hobbies, and we thought: Very true, but why wait? Admittedly, since he's only entering the 16th week of life, the range of Sonny's activities is greatly circumscribed. But there are some things that we can already participate in together...

1) Read: No, we've not fished out 'War and Peace'. But Sonny seems to enjoy it when we read aloud the cloth books we've borrowed from the library ('Colours', 'Nursery Rhymes', etc). Occasionally, he burbles his approval at an especially exciting episode ('And Jill came tumbling after'!), and is otherwise pretty attentive. He'll even desist from his thumb-sucking, which is something we absolutely won't be subscribing to ourselves, and against which we've been raging (see 'Our little terrorist understands threats').

2) Reflection-staring: We're not just fishing for chuckles here. Sonny especially enjoys gazing into mirrors or any reflective surfaces, so Pa recently decided to find out just why this was so captivating. Now, it's unlikely he's enjoying the same experience as Sonny, but he reports that stuff that you see in the reflection can seem ever so much more interesting than when directly viewed. Try it. How messy my hair is, Pa had thought when he began the experiment. My shirt's so wrinkled. I need a shave. I thought I stowed away that useless rocking chair that doesn't calm Sonny at all. That stool is grimy. Why am I wasting my time staring at... well, we'd best interrupt the stream-of-consciousness here, but you get the general idea. Presumably, Sonny isn't doing as much thinking when he's reflection-appreciating, but the world does seem a weirder, oddity-crammed treasure house.

3) Wriggling: Doesn't our young 'un love this. Put him on his back and he'll flap his limbs and cycle his arms and... well, isn't it just like warming up for fitness exercises, specifically the ones Pa hasn't quite gotten round to yet, despite many vows. The least he could do is to get the arm-swivelling, push-ups and stomach-crunches going, as even Sonny has, so Pa's been shamed into at least minimal action. Mum's not holding his breath on a resumption of the full routine.

4) Conversation: It wasn't long ago that we complained that Sonny wasn't being responsive to our ministrations. But that's begun changing of late, and his grandmother and infant care staff have all noticed that he likes it when he is being spoken to, without condescension. No 'goo-ga-boo-boo' gibberish for this fella. We'll be explaining the principle behind having a fan in the house (for air circulation and all that) and Sonny will be all ears. At times, he'll respond with a stream of nonsense-sounds, which sound for all the world as though he's trying to make a point or refuting an argument. Finding time for some 'serious chat with Sonny' seems to be rewarding enough, and Pa's happy to favour him with his latest philosophical observations.

And Mum's quite happy to relinquish the role of sounding board on that front. Some hobbies, presumably, aren't worth the sharing...

At long last, bath time is fun time!

Caring for Sonny can feel like building sand castles in the surf: Any progress made keeps melting away as though swallowed by the tide. One day, for instance, his feeding habits will seem to have stabilised. Or his sleeping schedule. Or even the cycle of his moods. Then the full moon shines, or maybe the wind changes, and we start from scratch again.

Looking back over the 11-odd weeks we've spent with Sonny, however, one towering achievement seems to have slowly arisen, proof against the ebb and flow of caprice: Bath time seems to be increasingly something that he truly enjoys.

It wasn't always so. As we whined about in 'Seeking the bath time breakthrough', perhaps a month and a half ago, Sonny used to alternate between phases in which he appeared to enjoy being half-immersed and times when he would struggle and fuss from the moment his booties were removed. Even three weeks ago, in our 'Top Ten Babycare Tips (Part I)', we were still advocating 'guerrilla bathing' - whereby we would wait till he was in a pliable mood before hurriedly whipping out the bath cloth and baby soap.

Of late, however, Sonny seems to have turned into an out-and-out bath aficionado. Indeed, Pa now prescribes a bath when Sonny is especially cranky. That's right: Some tub time actually calms him down and leaves him in the mood for a snooze. Not that we're not doing anything new, as far as we can tell. The key ingredients are still a bucket of nice warm water, enhanced with soap - then a little scrub-a-dub and splish-splash, with a vigorous towelling-off afterwards. Sonny might still fidget when his clothes are being removed. But he very quickly regain his composure and positively relaxes when lowered into the foamy water.

Admittedly, he doesn't start hatching giggles and laughs once he's half-submerged. He doesn't even look particularly alert, preferring to gaze about amiably the way spa-goers submit to the ministrations of skilled hands. We've heard that his half-floating in warm liquid might remind him of his time (still so recent) in the womb. Or perhaps the temperature is just right for a relaxing soak, once he became used to this twice-daily routine (and did he ever struggle at first!). We don't really know, but we certainly aren't complaining.

We're now looking out for other tangible signs that we are making our mark with Sonny. Hey, little validations that we aren't complete flops as parents go a long way towards propping up our morale. Hopefully, bath time won't be the only chance we have to make breakthroughs.

Training our one-armed baby

We've started torturing Sonny of late - by literally depriving him of one of his arms. All for his own good, of course.

The little critter, you see, has taken to sucking at either his mittens or - if we're giving his hand an airing - his knuckles. It's quickly become an absolute fixation, and not one that is easily discouraged: If we block him by putting an adult hand in the way, Sonny will happily suck at the new appendage instead. This is accompanied by loud and vaguely obscene sucking sounds. Obviously, we had to do something, since his mittens were becoming disgustingly wet within minutes of their being slipped on. And the hygiene risks were obvious.

The thing is, telling an eleven-week-old baby - however firmly - that something isn't to be done proved to have limited effectiveness. So we devised a cruel but effective disciplinary technique: We take a clean cloth nappy and wrap it around his body in such a way that it keeps his sucking arm tightly bound by his waist. Sonny ends up looking like a one-armed baby - more importantly, however, he isn't able to get his fingers to his mouth.

If Sonny's just had a good meal, he takes this punishment well: He simply amuses himself in other ways, such as by cooing randomly or peering intently into his own face, as reflected in the polished wood of our piano. But if he's in a cranky mood, being unable to suck his knuckles can send him into a tizzy. He'll scream, wiggle and half-roll about. However, if we've done our job right and the nappy is firmly wound around him, he will fail to free himself - though he gets maximum marks for trying. And trying. And trying.

Anyway, half the time, we feel rather sorry for the little fellow - and tell ourselves that this is a dry run for all the other times when we must be cruel to be kind: When we must severely reprimand him for his mistakes, teach him the error of his ways or bar his way to illicit pleasures. Truth be told, however, there's also a certain perverse satisfaction in watching him try desperately to free himself. After all the trouble he's given us - the early-morning howling and diaper-wetting - it is not entirely unpleasant to get a little of our own back.

Especially when it's in the name of helping him.