My Child is one and a half. He loves books. Eating them mostly. Or carefully placing chunks of banana between the pages and closing the books to create beautiful pressed banana keepsakes to surprise me with later.
I’ll find it after I’ve shoved the book in my handbag to bring somewhere – thoughtfully intending to provide him with entertainment. And he is entertained… by the sight of me experiencing the dreaded Banana Hand. As much as he loves his books, he is only one and a half and does not read them in the traditional sense. He just flips the pages and points at different pictures and says “Nanna” (banana). Everything is “nanna” except for toy cars which are “Kaaas” and items which are out of reach which are “Dah” (accompanied by pointing and ever louder repetition of the “Dah” word). However, despite his language and reading deficiency I am nursing a growing suspicion that The Child is somehow capable of reading my mind.
Before you go all Scully on me, allow me to state my case…
8 times I get the unnerving impression that my son is reading my mind
1. The secret munch:
I think: “Soon he’ll become distracted and I can get the crisps out of the secret cupboard and carefully and silently place each one in my mouth to dissolve on my tongue (one must not CRUNCH) while his back is turned.”
He will lock eyes with me, and with what can only be described as a malicious smile, go to the cupboard containing the treat, point and say “Dah, DAAH”. How does he know? How does he KNOW???
2. The sleep issue:
I think these nine fatal words: “I think the sleep thing is really improving…”
He responds by waking hourly for the next week and a half.
3. The revenge plot:
I’m dashing out the door, the thought, “This would be the worst time for him to take a…” crosses my mind.
He shits in his nappy, halfway up his back and somehow it gets into his shoe. How? HOW?
4. The ambitious outing:
Sometimes I’ll try to bring him somewhere outside of the usual wipe clean, plastic, baby-friendly destinations. The knowledge that it’s a nice day and we’re having a nice time is lurking vaguely at the edges of my consciousness, but the second, THE SECOND I think: “We should do this more often.”
He gives me a (usually visceral) reminder of why we should NOT do this more often. Mostly the reminder involves bodily fluids.
5. The slap in the face:
If I ever find myself feeling vaguely self-congratulatory or thinking along the lines of “I might be finally getting the hang of this thing.”
He will hit me with an abrupt and shocking reminder of my parental ineptitude. Perhaps by locating the Lindor chocolates and methodically sucking each one from its foil wrapper or unearthing and refusing to relinquish a cigarette butt, an item that he will become distraught without until I bribe him with a Lindor.
6. The off-limits room:
“Don’t go in there.”
“There” is the ONLY place The Child will want to be. It’s uncanny. And annoying.
7. The treasured toy (that is so completely battered and destroyed from the aggressive love of a human child that it resembles roadkill) needed a wash for reasons of hygiene standards:
“He won’t notice. How could he notice? He doesn’t notice when he does a poo in the bath.”
He notices. He looks at the bear; he looks at you and he knows.
8. The well-timed hug:
Self-preservation is his aim at all costs so when the thought: “I’m actually leaving, I”m taking my sagging mum pouch, slinging it over my shoulder and I’m running away” occurs…
He will appear in front of me, smiling his toothy, cheeky grin and give me a lovely hug… before slotting a bit of banana into my pocket.
