The Cerebral Mum

I knew it was coming. There were some valiant attempts earlier in the week. A white knuckled grip, a face mashed into the the upholstery, one knee high up against his side and one foot almost lifting off the ground. And two days ago he made it.

Yes, Caspar can now climb up onto the sofa. I’m impressed. I’m proud. I’m thrilled. But I’m also horrified. The logistics of the descent still seem a long way off. He thinks a head-first dive-bomb is the way to go and I can no longer leave the living room, even momentarily, while he is in it. Who will be there to catch him?

After a morning spent at the house I am selling, dragging old furniture and a pond and a pool table out to the nature strip for the annual hard rubbish collection, I actually spent some of my afternoon on the couch watching TV. Caspar is very good at entertaining himself. He likes patrolling the house, inspecting the floorboards, opening and closing doors and poking at whatever he discovers along the way. But he also likes his Mummy & Me time. And that means books.

So there I was, watching episode 3 of Grey’s Anatomy’s 4th season in a fairly half-assed way, perking up a little when Really Old Guy… No, better not mention that. It hasn’t aired here yet. Anyway, there I was on the sofa when Caspar came over and handed me one of his favourite books before clawing his way up and snuggling in to just the right spot for me to read to him. Needless to say, I turned the television off.

Let’s just dwell on that image for a minute, before I go on with my story. I can’t remember exactly when he started snuggling in by himself for story time, coming over with book in hand and sitting himself down on my knee whenever I was cross-legged on the floor but it still moves me each time. It is probably the clearest communication I have from him.

(When he shakes his head, no, he won’t hit me any more, does he really know what he is agreeing to? When he nods, yes, he’s finished his dinner, does he really understand what it means? Actually, I’m, pretty sure he has that one figured out. When I asked yesterday he had hardly eaten a thing but I let him down anyway so that he would learn. He promptly picked up his dinner so that he could continue eating while toddling off to say hello to Big Sis. Finished obviously means Get free. I think I got played.)

But I don’t think it’s the clear communication that puts butterflies in my stomach and a lump in my throat when he comes and claims his space, even though that is something to be proud of. It’s not even that he loves reading so much. I think it is the trust expressed - his trust in me, in my attention, in his place in my world - which is so very beautiful that it almost moves me to tears. I think it is in moments like these that you know you are doing a good job of being a mother.

But, being a mother, Caspar’s choice of a more elevated book time (elevated to sofa level) today seemed like a good opportunity to provide some instruction. Like any addict bookworm, one is never enough for him and his usual method of obtaining another fix more books when we are on the couch is to lunge over the edge to reach the bookshelf which doubles as a side table while I grab at his ankles like a bungee cord, trying to avert possible brain damage. Today, with a lot of patience on my part and very little on his, we did a some manoeuvring between stories to show him how to go down backwards. I’m not sure the message sank in though.

He’s right, after all: Head first is quicker.

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.

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.

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.