With an infant's unerring ability to distinguish between fun, forbidden delights and boring old toys, J can always be found crawling towards one of the following: the venetian blinds on the balcony door, anything in a plastic bag, the VCR, the glass-topped end tables, the cords sticking out of the back of the computer, and the pilot light on the gas fireplace. I filled his carseat with toys and wedged it between the couch and the wall, so that it's accessible in a challenging, tantalizing way - like the cords in back of the computer - and he hasn't so much as glanced at it. Given that when they're babies is the only time we even stand a chance of outsmarting our kids, I think all parents become mental contortionists in our effort to pull one over on our beloved offspring. Here are a few ways in which I've attempted to outwit J:
The Decoy Book
Nothing says excitement like that crinkling, leafy thing that adults are always holding in front of their faces with such undivided attention - the book/newspaper/magazine. So, I put last week's TV Guide somewhere accessible (but not obvious), and let him go to town. It appears to take him the better part of a week to demolish one, and we just pick up the torn out pages as they appear.
The Post-Modern Cushion Fort
Since we don't have baby gates, I've taken to removing the cushions and throw pillows from the couches and blocking access to the most tempting diversions - the VCR, the blinds, and the glass end tables. I also use chairs (which have floor-length skirts around their legs) to block the computer. I consider the result a compelling subversion of the dominant high-power-businessman persona of the apartment's furnishings, while simultaneously highlighting the "plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose" nature of the corporate male's urban one bedroom apartment, i.e. it is merely a reincarnation of the little boy's cushion fort as an exertion of independence from . . . oh, who cares? J thinks it's a fun game, and it keeps him from wrecking the blinds.
CheerioSweeper
This is like Minesweeper, but with Cheerios. Every morning I put J on the living room floor and scatter a handful of Cheerios all over the carpet. It's then his job to roam the living room, sampling whatever he encounters (which he would do anyway), and eating the Cheerios. If I make him sit in the high chair to eat breakfast, he just gets grumpy. And, since babies don't so much seem to eat everything they find as just evaluate it through "mouthing", I hope this reinforces for him the idea that there are some things we eat (Cheerios, say), and others we don't (lint, hair, leaves, bits of TV Guide . . . ). I think it's working - he's getting more selective with what he puts in his mouth off the living room floor. Why waste your time on newsprint when there's a perfectly good Cheerio to munch? Plus, this way he's *choosing* to eat the Cheerios he encounters, rather than having me thrust eating upon him. And, to reassure the squeamish, I do vacuum regularly.
Sing, You Fool
Parents sing to their kids. I'm not sure how universal this is, but I've noticed that other parents of small children seem without exception to sing to them. Sometimes it's actual children's songs, but more often than not it's whatever song happens to enter our heads at the moment the kid's grumpy, often with modified lyrics. Most parents' repertoires seem to include bastardizations of the Flintstone's theme and Frosty the Snowman, which goes to show what sticks in our psyches from our own childhoods. Also, parents don't give a gosh darn who hears them when they are serenading their little ones, as long as it gets the job done. For example, J often grouches when I change him, and the other day I was already mid-diaper change in the bathroom when I realized I'd been singing The Poop Song (don't ask) in front of our friend who was visiting . . . and this morning J, and probably the neighbours, heard a rousing rendition of that classic "Mom's Washing Her Hair, All the Babies Stare." Inventing rhymes on the spot has never been a strength for me. I did manage to rhyme feet with sweet, and arms with charms, and face with place, but I couldn't think of anything for legs other than . . . eggs? Like he cares - I'm covered with bubbles and singing like a maniac. As far as he's concerned, it's the best show on Earth.
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