I have slept through the night three times in a row now, the past three nights. The first morning it happened, just to surprise my parents, I caused rose petals to shower down upon their bed just as they were blinking their eyes open to a golden morning light framed by the window. It was 7:30. They listened in awe to the beautiful sound of me not crying. They looked at each other, stunned, amazed, as though they had come awake in a dream, a moment choreographed by the likes of Borges, two people trying to remember when they last got sufficient sleep and failing to remember when they last rested, truly rested, wondering if they were truly awake. They held each other gratefully, perhaps each wiping away a single tear. (Okay, forget that last part; too schmaltzy.)
Meanwhile, I was having a conversation with myself in my crib and reading the copy of The New Yorker that I stash under the mattress where nobody can find it. I like the cartoons, but the long, rambling Malcolm Gladwell pieces are pretty good, too.
Before proceeding, I must offer a correction to my father’s last blog, in which he claimed that I liked avocado with lemon. Nothing could be further from the truth. At this point, I am against eating anything green. I am also against anything blue, like blueberries. They are horrible. I am, however, in favor of things that are beige, yellow and orange. I ask anyone who runs into my parents to set them straight on this, and stop getting the colors mixed up. I am getting tired of spitting things out to show my disapproval.
I can play a drum now. I can hold down furniture to keep it from blowing away in a stiff wind. (See image, above.) I am learning how to crawl, backwards. Before you judge, remember that in my world there is no front, back, forward or backward. I enjoy reading books, but the complex plots, like those in “Goodnight Moon,” are beginning to bore me. I prefer “Where is Baby’s Belly Button?” and “Daddy Cuddles,” for the clean, straight arrow of their narrative.
There is something else I must set straight. We have been hearing a folktale lately that babies, when first born, look like their fathers. Later on, they look more like their mothers. One explanation for this was the babies realize they have to establish paternity quickly, so they take on the facial features of the father for a little while, then abandon them when no longer required, to take on the fairer, more pleasing features of their mother. This really sounds like the kind of story a mom would make up, right? Because it assumes that the babies would only take on their father’s looks under duress, abandoning them as soon as possible.
There is also this explanation, offered by a father hailing from Australia. He said that babies shape shift to look like their fathers so that the fathers don’t eat their babies. I don’t know what’s going on in Australia for him to come up with a story like that, but I can only assume it’s because things like that happened in cave man times. On this point, I think cavemen get a really bad rap. When you think about it, they are my peers. They ate rocks, which I would like to do if given the chance, and they had an obsession with dinosaurs, same as all young boys have. Don’t knock the cave man, okay? You are probably living with one, just as my parents are.
Let me tell you again how much I hate blueberries. I can make a face about them which will scare you a lot.