An unlikely pack of liars

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

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

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

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

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

A mighty meltdown

When anyone tells you that babies are cute, you may want to quickly correct him by adding, 'except when cranky. Or ill. Or both'.

Sonny has been nursing what seems to be a cold for over two weeks now (we first blogged about it in 'Sonny the Showboat') but he has mostly been bearing with it heroically well. These last couple of days, however, have seen a couple of spectacular, high-volume meltdowns that sent us scurrying to the windows to see if any have cracked.

In each case, Sonny had been sniffling mightily before either dozing off or being comforted by a nice spell of suckling. Once woken up while being carried to his cot, or upon being detached from his personal drink faucet, he had gone berserk. Now, you might think that we're dramatising things (what, us?), but it seemed that Sonny's mouth expanded to allow for more crying power. His hollering reached dimensions never plumbed before. A river of tears gushed from his eyes and his limbs tightened into fixed stumps of quivering rage.

And that was just the warm-up routine. His nostrils were pretty much gummed up as something that looked like tears, but with a much thicker consistency, flowed out. His breathing half-seized, which of course threw him into a greater frenzy of distress. You see how a vicious cycle quickly took hold: The greater the distress, the wilder the wailing, which meant an even more blocked-up nose, ratcheted-up discomfort - and so a mightier outburst of crying...

We ran out of coping strategies very quickly. Silly singing, swaying, talking, shouting, a wet cloth - nothing made an impression. His baby mind had been blotted out temporarily by some all-out bawling instinct. Sheer exhaustion was probably what finally stoppered the outburst. Then, within seconds, it was back to the 'jolly baby' production, with cheery gurgling interrupted only by random sniffles.

What have we learned from these episodes (apart from a need to buy earplugs and install soundproofing)? Probably that we have to be exactingly careful when transiting Sonny from one activity to another, whether from drinking to sleeping, playing around to resting or the like. These bridging moments seem to be the instances of greatest risk, where his equilibrium is disturbed and a tipping-over to frenzy is most likely. We've heard about doctors who medicate their own children, feeding them a little something to knock them out and silence the screaming.

For fleeting moments, such drastic action actually seemed to make some sense...

Lesson of the famous crabs

On our last night in Pa's hometown, we came to learn of a seafood joint of national repute, renowned for its barbecued crabs. We motored to the approximate location given by an Internet search, and found the eatery after a few false starts.

How delicious was the fare? The verdict was a generally positive one. But what really made an impression was how the existence of this 'famous eatery' had somehow eluded both Pa's mum, his brother and himself despite the compactness of the town and their long years in residence. It was Pa's sister-in-law, a complete foreigner to the place, who had heard of the restaurant from outsiders, who would drive in just to dine on the crabs.

It shows, if it shows anything at all, that you can't ever know something so well that some aspect or facet of it might yet come to light and surprise you. In fields of scholarship, even the greatest experts can be caught unawares by new knowledge. In life, too - to recycle a cliche - 'the best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley', which is to say that the most careful strategising and plotting can be up-ended by some unexpected twist of fate.

In childcare, too, we figure, the same sentiments are worth holding onto. Poring through parenting tomes or making exhaustive Net trawls may give us a false sense of confidence, a belief that we've anticipated all the possible emergencies and surprises that infants might throw up. But whether it's some weird malady, or quirk of infant conduct, or something too surprising even to characterise in advance, it's better that we adopt the assumption that the unexpected will happen. It makes the whole childcare business more interesting anyway.

Rather like running across some hidden-away restaurant serving challenging, but appetising, fare.

Sumo wrestler, smash that TV

Before a sumo bout gets underway, the protagonists go through a time-honoured ritual of crouching and thumping the ground loudly with their feet. Sonny hasn't actually seen any sumo fights, not even on television - yet he is often to be found enacting the ground-thumping.

Of course, since the little fella is only a week or so into his fifth month, and can't even stand unassisted, he doesn't really run through the whole process in the approved manner. But as he lies on his mattress, he will raise his foot and stamp it with startling authority and seriousness. Were he to put on a few pounds and be kitted out in a fancy loincloth, some folks might be willing to swear that he must have been studying sumo tapes using a VCR.

The assumption underlying all of this, of course, is that television programmes are the primary model for infant copycatting, outside of parental example-setting. And there's no doubt that the idiot box has assumed a frighteningly powerful role in 'bringing up' children, offering myriad ways of behaving, speaking, thinking and interacting. Many a parent we know is lulled by the usefulness of just slotting in a VCD or flicking to a cable channel, and having the resultant show hold the otherwise fidgety, fussy child in thrall.

It can be a nasty surprise, we understand, when their precious tots start to evince a disturbing lack of originality in their conduct and speech, but parrot only themes and lines from some yellow-suited, plastic-eyed creature and his ilk. Not that there aren't decent television programmes: It's how kids often unquestioningly imbibe what the boob tube blasts at them that's worrying. Many a year ago, Pa was surprised to meet an English gentleman who refused to have a television in his home, preferring that his daughter grow up in the company of books, fantasy friends and their invented adventures. It seemed an excessive step, but with the proliferation of cable or satellite channels since, and the way movies, television, games and other entertainment media have melded into one all-encompassing shaper of experience, it has sometimes seemed that the only way not to give in is to reject the whole shebang altogether.

Of course, parents can take a exacting middle road. They might exert stern discipline in ring-fencing no-TV times. Also, they might heavily promote other ways of spending time, be it reading, playing outdoor games, collecting stamps or creative conversing (chatting about world events, say). For our money, they might also make a game of inventing ways of dramatising to their children how staring blankly at a television for hours on end can turn their faculties to mush. It should be fairly amusing, and it's certainly true that television programmes can insidiously imprint thought patterns like a mould firmly pressed on soft clay.

Or make that the stomping of a sumo wrestler's foot.

Salty, sweet and Sonny

We're more than half way through our vacation in Pa's hometown - and it's given us the inspiration for an interesting, multi-year experiment, with Sonny as guinea pig.

While it's good to be revisiting one's own stomping grounds and breathe in familiar (if rather dust-laden) air, food is very much of the equation too. Sampling the local cuisine is a must. This may seem rather unnecessary to those with only a passing acquaintance with Singaporean and Malaysian cuisine, since many of the dishes have the same name, are cooked in broadly the same way and even seem to taste the same. But Pa's always insisted on the sweet/salty distinction as a distinguishing factor: A given food item (char kuay teow, say) will taste sweeter in an eatery in Singapore, and be saltier in Malaysia. But could it be that this is so only because Pa spent most of his formative years north of the Causeway, and so has had his taste buds trained in a certain way?

Mum, born and bred in the Republic, doesn't necessarily disagree with Pa's taste observations, but thinks he insists on it rather too much. Appealing to Pa's mother, brother or sister-in-law won't work either, since they are adults too. But Sonny's senses are uncontaminated. So long as we shuttle between Malaysia and Singapore with some regularity, exposing him to a range of foods, he'll be able to form his own opinions - and, in time, deliver his verdict on the salt/sweet rule.

Some might find all this plotting vastly premature, since Sonny is at the moment imbibing only milk, mum's milk and more of the same (as commented on in 'Our milk connoisseur'). The plan might even be held to be a symptom of the sort of hairsplitting that keeps political relations between the two countries perpetually a few speeches' away from a confrontation. Shouldn't we be stressing how similar the two nations are, instead of underlining differences even in food and drink?

Thing is, Sonny's been showing himself a right fussy eater, with distinct preferences as to how he prefers to be held while snacking, which breast he prefers and so on. In short, he might just be a food critic in the making - and keeping him in training to solve the sweet/salty conundrum might launch him onto the path of success. Who are we to prevent bar him?