Man vs. Baby Page 16
Effectiveness: 4/5 Annoyance Level: 4/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: 3/5
The Donut: Baby arches back to such a degree that head almost touches ankles and body forms a circle, a human donut, allowing no point of entry for trousers or onesie. (Lacks effectiveness only because the position is a level 10 yogic move and can’t be held for very long.)
Effectiveness: 2/5 Annoyance Level: 3/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: 2/5
The Pedaler: Baby lies on back and rides invisible bicycle. (Possibly the most infuriating of all the wanky moves a baby can pull if you’re trying to put on trousers, socks, or shoes.)
Effectiveness: 4/5 Annoyance Level: 4/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: 3/5
The Dying Fish: A general fucker of a move, as the baby just flips like a trout removed from a pond.
Effectiveness: 4/5 Annoyance Level: 4/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: 3/5
The Field Goal: Baby stubbornly holds both arms in the air, as though awarding a touchdown, and refuses to put them down. (Forcing them down often just forces the energy into the legs and baby simply deploys The Pedaler.)
Effectiveness: 4/5 Annoyance Level: 4/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: 3/5
The Crane Kick: See the 1984 film The Karate Kid.
Effectiveness: 3/5 Annoyance Level: 3/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: 3/5
These are Charlie’s current favorite moves, but there are many more at his disposal. The Threatened Hedgehog Defense: Curls up into a ball. The Mother Brown: knees up. The Starfish. The Praying Mantis. The Snow Angel. The Condemned Man. You must have a countertactic for each of these.
And then there is a move for which there is no known countertactic:
The Possession: The ultimate. If dressing your child were an arcade game like Tekken or Street Fighter, The Possession would be his “special move.” A move in which all techniques are deployed simultaneously. There is nothing any parent can do about this: a demon has seemingly taken up residence in your baby’s body and the aforementioned demon really doesn’t want to wear clothes today.
Effectiveness: 5/5 Annoyance Level: 5/5
Temptation to say “fuck it” and let baby spend the day in just a diaper: N/A (like you have a choice)
Thankfully, Charlie has only resorted to The Possession a few times, but, believe me, they were occasions when he did spend the rest of his day hanging out in just his diaper, with a victorious and smug look on his face.
BABIES HATE CLOTHES
It’s difficult to see why babies exhaust so much energy fighting the apparent scourge of being dressed. But the fact is, babies hate clothes. You could argue that that’s nonsense, that babies don’t hate being clothed, they’re just annoyed and irritated by the process of being dressed, but that’s not true. Just take a look at accessories.
Every item of clothing that it’s possible for babies to remove on their own, they do. Caps, scarves, socks, you name it, babies remove these all the time and at every opportunity. It’s as if item by item they are always trying to get naked again. It’s what makes baby accessories so absurd. When we take Charlie out, the trail of mittens, hats, shoes, bibs that we leave in our wake is endless. We lose so much of this stuff just on our street that after a walk to the local park, the neighbors see the debris and think they’ve just missed a streaking dwarf. And you can guarantee that if Charlie could just as easily remove his onesie or pants and toss them aside, he would.
So when you consider the way that babies treat accessories, it is pretty clear that it’s not just the activity of being dressed that babies don’t like, it is also the actual wearing of clothes that they are not that keen on. So, why?
Maybe the answer lies with those adults who also treat being dressed as an annoyance and being fully clothed as something to be railed against. When you think about nudists, it’s hard not to call to mind those occasional documentaries you see about them: the ones with large-breasted lunch-ladies and eighty-year-old geezers enjoying a game of badminton as their old turkey genitals swing in the wind. But maybe there is something to their philosophy that harkens back to this infant state. Perhaps there is something fundamentally unnatural about humans being dressed, and we are all just born nudists, forced to learn to put up with clothes. And maybe this is the battle that is being fought, with such ferocity, between parents and babies on changing mats across the world.
THE MANUAL
If you ever confide in those who have already been through the whole parenting experience, you will often hear the phrase “Yeah, they don’t come with a manual.” Which begs the question: Why not?
Everything comes with a manual. You can’t buy a shitty toaster without a 250-page manual in forty-seven different languages, telling you exactly how to press down the knob on the side, and wait for the bread to turn brown and pop back up.
And yet, when you leave the hospital with this delicate, most complicated and sophisticated of things, you are not given anything that even approaches instructions. You are expected to wing it, to guess, or to seek out the information for yourself in one of the thousands of books that bury practical stuff in talk of psychology and development and bonding.
Maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Writers always seem to talk about parenthood as a journey, but I don’t think that’s quite right. Journey implies that you know where you’re going or that you have a destination in mind or, at least, that there actually is a destination.
But, when it comes to parenting, it’s not at all clear that such a thing exists. We might think that the end point is to steer our children into adulthood; but if you speak to older parents, it’s pretty clear that your kids reaching adulthood is just another waypoint, and not a place of arrival at all.
So maybe the traveling is the whole point, and the journey really is just one of discovery. And maybe the fact that you are forced to discover the basics on your own isn’t a trick, but a gift. Because when you’re on this kind of journey, a manual is the closest thing you can get to a map . . . and traveling with a map? Where’s the fun in that?
* * *
So, what happened with Buddy?
That day, I rode home in tears. And when I explained to my dad why I was so upset, he made me a cup of tea and told me not to worry.
That weekend he took me to a local garden center, and we bought a new cactus, which we potted in the same glued-together ceramic pot that Buddy had died in. And, after the break, I returned to school and handed a thriving “Buddy Mark 2” to Miss Wilson, who rewarded me with praise, never noticing the switch me and my dad had pulled.
The following semester, on the final day, Miss Wilson called me to the front of the class and presented me with the cage that held Cracker and told me that the class guinea pig was now my responsibility for the whole of the Christmas holidays. I was beyond proud. I felt new, reborn, and I took Cracker home and I lavished him with love and affection and water and food.
And there this story of redemption ends . . .
Or it would have, if I hadn’t lavished Cracker with so much attention, love, and food that I seriously overfed him, and six days into the holiday he died of a massive heart attack . . .
and so the following day my dad took me along to a pet shop . . . etc.
* * *
I. In England, all major personal crises are solved by going to the pub and having a pint; it is our alternative to therapy. (Apparently, in the US there is approximately one bar for every 5,000 people. In the UK it’s more like one pub for every 300 people. We have more pubs than grocery stores. Come the end of the world, we’ll all starve to death . . . but will probably be t
oo drunk to give a shit.)
II. The uniquely British expression “piss on your chips” comes from the scenario of a guy buying some takeout chips (French fries) after an evening’s drinking. Finding that he needs to pee on his walk home from the pub, he places his chips on the ground and then accidentally urinates on them. Hence, “piss on your chips.” What can I say, English is a beautiful language.
8
* * *
ENTERTAINMENT
“Are you not entertained!?”—Maximus Decimus Meridius
Long before Romans enjoyed gladiators in the Colosseum, human beings have been entertained by the pain and suffering of their fellow man. And I’m starting to think that this is just an instinct we’re born with.
I’ve spent three hours this morning playing with Charlie: pulling faces, tickling him, or playing with one of the thousand toys that are supposed to keep him engaged, and I’ve barely managed to raise a smile.
But I’ve just fallen off our garden wall and impaled my ass on an upturned barbecue, and he’s been pissing himself laughing for about the last half an hour.
. . . All right, Charlie, stop being a dick now, it really hurts.
ENTERTAINMENT
* * *
Peekaboo. Peekaboo. Peeeeekaaahboo. Peeeeeeeeeeeekaaaaaah—you get the general idea.
The peekaboo game is pretty much the ultimate diversion for any discerning baby. It’s the pinnacle of entertainment. For a newborn, peekaboo is Elvis’s ’68 comeback special, it is the Beatles live at Shea Stadium, Bowie at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1973. It is David Copperfield making the Statue of Liberty fuck off before the eyes of the watching world.
There’s a good reason why they find this simple game so entertaining: one of the greatest things about babies is that they’re quite dim. I know experts stroke their chins earnestly and say babies are extremely intelligent. But, let’s face it, the peekaboo game works simply because, when you put your hands in front of your face, a baby generally wonders where the fuck you’ve gone. Like I said, they’re a bit dim. It’s not their fault, they’ve only been on the planet five minutes, so they’re still figuring out how it all works. To expect them to do anything other than crap and blow spit bubbles would be like expecting a cat to drive a car: they haven’t been taught how, and their feet won’t touch the pedals.
So, in terms of entertainment, babies are a great combination: thick, but interested in everything.
Entertaining them is easy then? Nope.
Keeping a baby entertained can be quite difficult. The average newborn has the attention span of a wasted fish. You can make a facial expression that your baby thinks is the greatest, funniest thing she has ever seen. The second time she sees it, it is the dullest, and that can be hard to take. There is nothing more pathetic than an adult trying to gain the approval of a child by blowing raspberries and being ignored. And there is nothing more crushing than being on the receiving end of a withering look from a baby that says: “You’re boring me, dickhead.”
But it’s best not to feel too bad when a baby fails to be impressed by your efforts. Babies can be the toughest crowd ever. If they’re not in the mood, it’s like doing a stand-up gig for the Taliban:
“Good evening, Kabul! I haven’t seen this many beards since Mumford and Sons fucked their way through Amish country. . . .”
Silence, apart from one heckler: “Die, infidel scum!”
So it can be hard work keeping a baby entertained. But there are weapons in our arsenal.
TELEVISION
TV is perfect for babies. It is fast-moving, ever-changing, and characterized by quick edits and high-speed colors. Sit a baby in front of the TV and he is utterly captivated. This box of wonder can turn a hysterical baby into a compliant, calm, and submissive member of the household in seconds. It is the perfect electronic babysitter.
Well, maybe not quite perfect. There is the slight downside that, according to most of the scientific research, too much TV rots babies’ brains and leads to them growing up to be gibbering idiots, spree killers, or goths.
Thanks a lot, “Science.” Another bonfire you just had to piss on.
In essence, the research suggests that it is all just way too stimulating, and supposedly this can cause all kinds of problems. We might think that our little one is learning about numbers and letters and all that good stuff, but according to these bonfire-pissers, even educational TV can inhibit language development, reading skills, and short-term memory. And, speaking as someone who watched a lot of TV as a kid, I suspect it can also affect your short-term memory. (Ba-dum tish.)
According to HealthyChildren.org, too much television can also contribute to problems with sleep and attention. Basically, if you listen to the professionals, TV is a baby death-ray.
(As conflicting as all other advice seems to be, the experts are in general agreement about this: TV is to baby brains what toffee apples are to teeth. And these same experts make no bones about telling parents that if they let their little ones have unlimited access to telly, it will be their own fault when their offspring grow up to be the kind of goobers who grace the stage of Jerry Springer: toothless, in their best sweatpants, and arguing about fuck-all.)
Here’s the problem: Charlie loves TV. To begin with he wasn’t interested, but then one day he just became transfixed, and if you walked across his line of sight while he was watching Teletubbies, he would glare at you like he was considering pulling a blade. This was something of a worry. So, with this development, coupled with the expert advice, we did decide to start limiting the time that Charlie sat in front of the box.
Actually, that’s a lie. I’d love to say that we started to limit Charlie’s TV intake because of some worthy concern or that it was a decision we reached after a careful study of all the research. But, to be honest, the primary reason we decided to intervene was that we just couldn’t take any more of the baffling, nightmarish content of baby television. We could feel our own brains beginning to come undone. Just to be clear, despite the science telling us that TV is a kind of brain-scrambling, domestic lobotomizer for babies, there is such a thing as baby television. Television programming for kids too young to understand the more sophisticated toddler TV of piggy families, trains with faces, and a camp purple dinosaur. (We have all that to look forward to.)
For years I’ve listened to parents talk effusively about how good kids’ TV is, and maybe they were being ironic, or maybe all that later stuff is. But TV aimed at babies is utter dogshit. What babies seem to crave are primary colors, bright lights, and repetition rather than sophistication. Consequently, the whole thing is nonsense. It’s all claw-your-eyes-out colors, and trees made of lollipops . . . and this purple thing wanders on and talks like it’s had a debilitating stroke . . . and then a unicorn appears and counts to three!? And then there’s a badly drawn wizard who shits a rainbow and?! . . . Sweet Jesus!? Just Have A Fucking Storyline!?
Sorry.
But, coupled with sleep deprivation, television for babies is like being strapped to the conditioning chair in A Clockwork Orange, and it’s easy to see how it can make a baby nuts when, as an adult, watching it even peripherally makes me want to drive a spike through my brain.
All that said, television is not the enemy. As a way of keeping a baby entertained, I can’t help thinking it has its place. Charlie still enjoys TV and, while I try to be aware of not turning his brain into mashed potato or the kind of dull organ that sits between the ears of a Kardashian, I see it as a useful tool for a new parent wanting to carve out that short bit of time each day to do something fun like take a piss or eat.
So, to be honest, science can fuck off.
In moderation.
BOOKS
So if TV is no good as entertainment, are books any better?
If you look at the Debate.org website, you will find a lively debate entitled: “Are books better than TV?” It’s a good place to start.
It’s an interesting intellectual discussion littered with many genuine,
what can only be described as “anti-book” comments like this:
“TV is better. Books are long and boring all you do is look at words.”
Or:
“Books are like just really, really boring like so boring and TV has lots of colors, and it talks to you.”
So, there it is, captured in two simple sentences, all the evidence you need that it’s really important to read books. Otherwise you’ll find yourself about as bright as the people arguing on Debate.org.
Putting the compelling argument aside that books are, like, just really, really boring: in simple terms, when it comes to your baby, science says TV is bad; science says books are good.
And, when it comes to introducing books to your little one, it’s a case of the earlier the better.
It is impossible to read a parenting book (or watch a parenting TV show), without being told how important it is to read to your baby from birth as part of your “routine.” In fact, some experts go further and suggest you should read to your baby in the womb. The really hard-core parenting professionals suggest you should read to your sperm and unfertilized ovum (not really, I made that up).
I did read to Charlie while he was in the womb, though. We were told it didn’t matter what you read because it was all about the baby hearing the cadence and changing tone of your voice. So I whiled away many hours reading to Lyns’s belly: Sandakan: The Harrowing True Story of the Borneo Death Marches, and also a biography of English gangsters the Krays.
The little one kicked with enthusiasm every time Reggie battered a nonce.I (Again, not really.)
When Charlie was born, we continued to read to him, and still do, every night. And, to be honest, it’s not always the most rewarding pastime. For the first few months all a baby wants to do is rip or eat whatever text is placed in front of him. So far, Charlie doesn’t give a shit how much room there is on the broom; he cares more about what the pages of Room on the Broom taste like. But I am absolutely certain that will change.