Little Boyhood
# 3
Date 7-24-58
Gerald Peter stands on the threshold of little boyhood. On fat, wobbly legs. Right now, at 10 months, he is still my round little ball of a baby, all cheeks and chin. With a sponge rubber tummy.
He gets into mischief these days, but doesn’t know it. In a few short weeks, he’ll know mischief when he sees it and get into it. The time is almost at hand when 1 be faced with the ever-repeating task of making a good little boy out of my baby. Anybody who has ever gone through this experience knows that the complications involved in flying to the moon are kindergarten stuff in comparison.
. Up to now, Gerry has had his every ‘baby whim satisfied. When he cried in the night, somebody picked him up. When he was hungry, somebody gave him a bottle. When he was tired, somebody put ‘him to bed. When he needed a shoulder to rest his head. a shoulder was there. As much as he knows, life is nothing but hugging and kissing and a lot of silly games.
With each baby, I put off longer and longer that first, firm discipline. What a shock that first little spanking must be. It seems such a short time ago that Buzzy looked at me with unbelieving eyes and wailed for ten minutes at the thought of what his mother had done. Soon, Gerry will wonder what’s got into his mother.
Already, he must feel she is changing character. As soon as he finds something interesting to do in the bathroom, that dear sweet lady scoops him up and removes him from the scene. Just as he’s decided to try to plunge down the stairway, she closes the door. And let him do a strenuous cross-country crawl from kitchen to living room window to give three wonderful yanks on the draperies—and wow! there he is, back where he started.
All these gentle no-no’s are meant to prepare him for his first paddling. And the moment will come when I have to close my eyes to his wonderful baby-ness and do it. I dread the day. But, if I’m soft-hearted now, I’ll call myself soft-headed by the time he’s three. He’s a little boy. Plain and simple no-no’s will just stick in his ears.
Having a baby is such a short term glory. For too few months a baby’s mother is his one and only. The very sight of me after a five-minute absence makes Gerry almost jump out of himself. He likes nothing better than to have me pick him up and play with him. Next best, he likes to smile at me. In a year, he’ll rather bring rocks in the house.
So the time is coming when Gerry will pass from his baby phase to his little-boy phase. And I won’t have a baby anymore to ease the strain of the day. If you have a baby handy, there’s nothing like a cuddle session with the little guy or gal to get rid of a mean, mad, moody feeling. Try it doesn’t get much publicity, that tranquilizer, but it’s the best out.
But, lest you think I love all his baby ways, let me fill you in on his eating habits. When he gets hungry, he wants no delay. He eats the first three spoonfuls like a starving tiger. Then, he loses interest. He lurches to the side of his high chair and, head down, studies the spots on the floor. This not only means defying gravity to feed him, but it adds to the spots on the floor.
When he tires of the Spot Study, he weaves back and forth, to and fro, trying to knock the spoon down with one hand, stuffing his bib in his mouth with the other. This is something like changing a tire on a moving car.
I thin give -him two clean spoons to occupy his hands so I can regain entry. He drops one. I pick it up. He drops the other. I pick it up. I remember what it says in the baby books: “Your baby at this age has learned how to release things from his hand. He is not trying to annoy you. So he practices his new-found talent of releasing. I practice retrieving.
Somehow, between all this I do get in four spoonfuls. When the Spoon Game bores him, he does a sudden half twist and attempts to leap over the back of the high chair. I remember the books: ‘Smile when you feed your baby.” He turns around and smiles at me. He sneezes. There are the four spoonfuls.
At times like these I am more than anxious to see him ‘grow to manhood.
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