I had a rather new and different experience early this week.
I participated in my first test of wills with my son.
For six months now, I've grown used to the little guy being around. For most of those six months we could easily classify his wants and desires under three simple categories:
His main method of communication has been making noise, usually crying. I'd always heard how parents learn all the different cries that their offspring produce and hadn't believed it possible. But now, even though I spend way too much time sitting in a cubicle far away from my wife and son, I'm pretty much able to tell what the wee dude wants from the tenor of his wail and from the context. It's nine o'clock in the evening and he's crying his little head off? Time to make a bottle. It's ten in the morning, he's rubbing at his eyes, and he's unhappy no matter what you do? Time to lay him in his bassinet for a nap. He's just eaten and is whining up a storm? Time for his favorite John Lennon stuffed rhino to jump out of the toy box and do an entrancing little tap dance routine. Almost every problem has had a solution. Like I said, he's been a pretty easy baby to deal with.
Of course, sometimes he doesn't want to go to bed quite yet or he decides to pitch a completely random fit, but those times are few and far between. We're told by other parents, especially other new parents who are presently in the thick of it, that we are extremely lucky. I think I'd understand that even if no one told us or if our heads weren't bulging with a hulking accretion of baby-lore built up over years of cultural osmosis.
What I'm trying to say here as preamble, while not incurring the wrath of the Fates or of other parents, is that I've had a pretty damned easy time of it so far.
This is why the episode of several nights ago made such a big impression on me.
Leaving my wife with the dude at home, I trekked off to do some research for bathroom remodeling and to get dinner.
I had been nursing a hankering for a roasted chicken from the local supermarket. I'm usually not one to go for pre-prepared meals, but my dad turned me on to these chickens. See, he's a salesman who's territory encompasses most of the Pacific Northwest. The nature of the area's geography and commercial development, coupled with my dad's line, means that customers are widely dispersed. To get the most out of the territory and to provide the best service he can, my dad spends a lot of time on the road. He must know every hamlet, every motel, and every diner across California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and Montana. Drop him anywhere in his territory and he can tell you where to find the best coffee.
My dad is also one of the most gastronomically demanding people I know. Everything he ever cooks is subjected to harrowing scrutiny afterwards. The verdict is usually "Should've used more dill." or "Next time I'll let it marinate a little longer." Sometimes his creations are disasters, most often they are sublime, but he always goes for broke, no matter if he's poaching a whole salmon or making an omelet.
A palette so critical is bound to get tired of the anonymous, predictable fare found in most greasy spoons, so one night, on a lark, he bought a roast chicken from Safeway. He had a little epiphany and ate on it for at least two meals. He shared his discovery with me and now I'll never be able to eat KFC again.
This fateful night, I bought home the chicken, flushed with success over my remodeling research. We whipped up a couple of side dishes and I served my wife as she was playing with our son in our bonus room. I decided to join them and lay down on my belly.
I soon learned the stupidity of my position. Within a very few minutes, my son caught sight of my plate covered in chicken. He immediately decided that the plate was the most fascinating thing in the room and scooted over. I tried to fend him off, but this little guy was determined. We must have spent five minutes locked in combat, him reaching and pushing, and me fending while trying to eat before everything went cold.
Of course I considered getting up and eating at the table, but by the time I thought that, I was already amazed at my son calmly and resolutely pressing his case for something other than a basically biological need. His little face was set, not in concentration, but with a determined focus. Whatever Dad was playing with, he wanted a part of it too. Eventually, I finished eating and my wife was able to distract him long enough for me to get up.
I wonder what I'm going to do once he learns how to use language to get what he wants. If he's anything like my wife, I'm doomed. I'll probably have to resort to "I don't know son. Ask your mom."
Pakeha