The Cerebral Mum

Yes. He’s turning one. It’s wonderful. And it’s too fast.

A party date is set. The 21st. I’ve let people know but it’s time to get those invitations out. I ditched my picnic idea - it is too inconvenient to get us to a location convenient for everyone else. If only a few people come, well, that’s a bit depressing but it is the way things are until we move.

So a yard and a barbeque and a birthday cake. Home made, of course. And no balloons. Caspar is terrified of balloons. It is the first thing he has ever really been afraid of. He cries and clings and buries his head on my shoulder briefly before turning back to make sure that round and colourful air monster isn’t coming for him.

So definitely no balloons.

I bought some invitations yesterday and some 90 cent crayons as his present. Today I’m off to get some nice paper to print off as Wishes to send along with the invitations so that everyone who can’t make it can fill them out and send a birthday message for him. I’m hoping that I will also find a secondhand, Caspar-height table for him to sit and scribble at and I will get some colouring paper. After that, and the beer and the meat, all the preparations are done. It’s not the best party I have ever planned (And a generic invitation pad? Who does that?) but it will do.

So now I just have to deal with the fact that this first year almost over. Just the other day when I dressed him, I thought I’d try on one of the oversized polo shirts that my Mum had bought for him in July. Contrary to my expectation, it fit perfectly. It almost made me cry. Some of the welling tears were of pride. (Pride that he is growing? Does that count as an achievement? Well, yes. When you’re a mother.) The rest of the tears were for being forced to acknowledge that there is not a lot of baby left in him.

I remember when he was a baby and I went to the the supermarket and placed him in the infant seat as I usually did. Looking at him there and trying to do the straps up, I realised he was far too big to be in the infant seat any more and was ready for a real trolley. But I felt so silly for not realising this that I left him there and did my shopping with some chagrin. And it was just the other day that I realised I no longer have to carry him from the car to the house and then go back for my shopping bags.

He can walk, stoopid!

I can carry my bags and he can hold my finger and we can walk into the house together. Change just happens in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it takes me a while to catch up.

So on his first birthday he will wear his big clothes, feed himself cake, put his hands on his head, clap, dance, say dah-gah, play catch, lead everyone else around by the hand and tear the paper off his presents himself. As he should.

It freaks me out and bring tears to my eyes.

And that is how it should be as well.

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Today was eventful. I was bitten by my neighbour’s dog and I learned Caspar’s very first word: Dah-gah.

Dah-gah is not, as I thought, a random combination of syllables. Dah-gah means dog.

That’s synchronicity for you.

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Before I write this post I would like to state for the record that I think motherhood is easy or, at least, the first year is anyway. So far it has been just as I expected and all those women who annoyed me while I was pregnant with tales of how I wouldn’t find time to bake muffins or sleep for the next 20 years (among other ridiculous claims) and who, when I disagreed with them, shook their heads and sighed at me as though I was delusional have been proven wrong.

I state this because although motherhood is work, the negatives get focussed on to such an extant that new mothers are virtually encouraged to be overwhelmed by the whole experience before they’re even out of the gate.

But those thoughts are worth an entire post in themselves.

Although being a mum is easy (the love you feel really does wash everything else away) there is one thing going on right now that is getting to me. And any and all advice is welcome.

Caspar has started to hit and scratch me. A lot.

This behaviour isn’t unexpected but I wasn’t expecting it quite so early and I haven’t got a handle on how to deal with it when he is only (almost) one. It’s not like I can explain what he’s done wrong and send him on a time out: He’s far too little to understand “consequences”.

The only tool I have in my arsenal is to firmly say, No!, with my serious face on which works very well when he’s touching things that he’s not allowed to touch but isn’t so effective when he’s having the 1 year old’s equivalent of a tantrum. Trying to work out what is causing the behaviour seems to be the most important thing and I do have some answers.

Teething makes him stroppy but can’t be blamed entirely. It all boils down to boredom and frustration, which is understandable as his mind races far in advance of what his limbs and hands can do but it still makes me feel a bit shite for not having taken him out anywhere at all this week. At his age there is a limit to the things I can do to amuse him at home.

Apart from making a concerted effort to find new games to play to reduce his boredom and frustration (and reminding myself not to take it personally), is there any way to handle the scratching and hitting now that will help when his assertiveness really kicks in?

(I would also like to state for the record that I remain firmly convinced of Caspar’s perfection and see this behaviour as just another sign of his brilliance and strength of character.)

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I’m not sure if I let you all know how Caspar’s hearing test went after his surgery and I’m too tired to check at the moment, but he can now hear properly. At his age, they only test the normal vocal range but that is the most important part. Anything else will just be what it is.

What I can tell you is that he knows words. Quite a few words.

He has known nose for a good while. It took me some time to realise this as he points to noses a lot and at night when I put him to bed I always say, Beep Beep. Have a good sleep. With appropriate actions. I know this is tragic but I did it once and he liked it. He is the final arbiter of my taste.

(Except when the most interesting thing on TV is an ad for the latest obnoxious ringtone. I have to draw the line somewhere.)

Anyway, after exhaustive testing, he knows nose.

The second word I learnt that he had learned was a little out of left-field: Buddha.

That’s what I said. Buddha.

I have a large wooden carving on my mantelpiece that he likes to be held up to (to poke its nose!) and whenever he is upset or crying, taking him to see Buddha works like a charm. No, Hush, hush, there, there…, just, Let’s go and see Buddha, and everything is roses again. If you have a very unhappy baby and no hair left, I highly recommend investing in the tubby philosopher.

Cas is also quite comfortable with ears, especially Buddha’s ears, but doesn’t yet find other facial features particularly worthy of his interest.

He has become au fait with toad and fish and frog and can confidently point to cats and dogs in real life as well as picture books.

He knows which family portrait in the hallway is Oma.

(He might know which one is Mummy as well but that could just be wishful thinking.)

I will not recount all the words he knows (yes, no, thank-you, good and more are not thrilling to anyone but me) but I will skite about the most impressive phrase to date.

Reading has been something of a struggle lately. He has become more interested in turning pages than listening to words. He has been trying to work out this miraculous process for some time but it has eluded him. With a little help from Mummy however (consisting of a finger between the current page and the next) he can get the job done. Since he discovered this, I have had to hold all books out of reach to avoid his impatient and somewhat destructive fingers.

Today I discovered that simply saying, Turn the page, solves this problem much in the same way Tinkerbell’s tinkle did when I was listening to Disney stories on vinyl.

Tomorrow, he will be 11 months old. He knows what Turn the page means. I am doing something right.

Then again, he knows that if he follows me when I say, Pee pee pee pee peeeee… he’ll be allowed to pull the toilet roll.

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The fourth assignment from 30 Poems in 30 Days . Poetry of place…

Get out of the house and write in a new place. Write about the place you choose to go to. Don’t just rely on what you see. Describe the smells, the tastes and the sounds if you can. Try to give your readers a full picture of the place you choose.

I have discovered
you cannot write
a poem
at the beach

with child in tow
with sand in fist
with weak waves lapping
still cold

with gulls crying
with hand tugged
while watching
first wet feet.

You cannot write
a poem
at the beach
when it is

new and seen
with new eyes
fixated on the sand
the texture

the damp sinking
movement
beneath pink
feet.

Not while you
teach him
to shake and shake
it off

teach him not
to eat it
point to birds
point

to waves
to people
unseen by eyes
fixated.

You have to cheat
and write
when he is home
in bed.

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Cas and I have spent a lot of time in waiting rooms since he was born. I’ve just added it up and there have been over thirty appointments. There have been the usual weigh-ins and vaccinations of course, and then the GP, paediatrics, audiology, pathology, ENT, plastics, and Cleft Clinics.

Even leaving aside the days after he was born waiting in the hospital for the registrars and the speech pathologist, and leaving aside our recent stay waiting for all his post-surgery examinations and medications, he has still spent a month of his short life, 1 day in every ten, in waiting rooms.

When you’re alone, sitting there trying to read a book or playing with your phone or just trying not to let the fluorescent lighting crush you, time is interminable. But when you have company, and I mean the best company, it’s almost not long enough.

Everything is fascinating with a baby. When he was tiny and couldn’t do much, everything he did was compelling and it was time away from the chores surrounding me at home. Once he got a little bigger, the linoleum was a source of interest, the bad art he pointed at on the walls could be exclaimed at and described even though he couldn’t hear me clearly.

And there were all those people he could stare at, and all their cooing and praise for me to enjoy.

Now that he’s walking, I let him lead me by the hand to inspect our audience. Occasionally he warms to them and graces them with smiles. Occasionally he will perform. And time flies.

I like to think that time moves faster for his audience as well. Waiting rooms are so oppressive. Small talk is uncomfortable, and even whispers are uncomfortably loud. A child gives everyone an excuse to relax their boundaries, forget about the stress of why they are there and just breathe.

Perhaps I’m wrong, and for some we are an annoyance but I let him explore the people as much as the place freely. As a single mum, with not much contact with the outside world at the moment, I like that he is not shy of people. He is not gregarious; he’s a watcher, but I people his world with strangers and that’s the best I can do. For now.

So we like waiting rooms.

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Cas, unlike his mother, is a very observant child.  I let him carry the keys between the car and the front door and he now reaches out to try and put them in the keyhole.  He is also paying close attention to door handles and can confidently turn the lights on and off. Clever little fella.

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