Two Things About Ian

Just as I wrote that Ian doesn't seem to need words, he's developed a fixation on aquiring names for things. I guess he figures that now he can run a little, and kick a ball, and hop, all before falling down, that it's time to move on to the next thing.

Poor little guy. So far he can only pronounce first consonants. And the three most important words in his infant lexicon begin with the letter 'B'.

Bottle.

Bed.

Ball.

At least with 'outside' I can catch an 'ah-DUH!' while he stares longingly out the window to make it especially clear. "Mamama" still hasn't been delimited to indicate me alone; it seems to be his expression of need or longing. "Dadada" refers to his Dad, to fun in general, and to all males, the mere presence of whom Ian seems to take as the manifestation of a miracle. (In Wisconsin he has five aunts and three great-aunts; but only two uncles and two great-uncles.)

But oh, those 'B' words.

"Buh" he says. "Buh. Buh." With an expression of intensest concentration. I look around in bewilderment. What does he expect of me?

"Buh. Buh. Buh. Buh."

"Ball?" I try. "Ball? Does Little Baby Ian want his ball?"

"nBUH! nBUH!"

"Bottle? Is that it, do you want your bottle?"

(Pumping arms up and down now.)

"BUH, BUH, BUH! nBUH, BUH, BUHbbbbbbbb!"

"Bed? Does Little Baby Ian want to go to Bed?"

Ian freezes; this is it. He smiles at me and very carefully puts out his arms.

Things were easier when he just fetched his bottle and crawled off toward his room.

***

Today I wrote Ian's name in big capital letters over the length of a piece of paper. "Ee - A - Nuh" I pronounced, pointing to the letters, then "EEEEAAAANNNN" and finally, "Ian. Ian." over and over. I don't think I've every seen more love in his face. He wasn't sure what I was doing but he knew the attention was very very personal.

The Cry of the Wild Kinderbeast

My son Ian is not only a baby boy. He's a manchild, and I have been aware of this fact from the first moment that he stared appraisingly into my eyes that night in the hospital.

I was fully grown, powerful, able to endure - and had just proved this fact through six hours of labor.

He on the other hand was tiny and completely helpless. Yet in that first hour, when he was still able to take his existance for granted, the soul that stared out of those baby eyes was critical, interested and domineering. And then he closed his eyes and slept in my arms.

Like his fully grown counterparts, Ian only gives hugs after a victory in some athletic endeavor such as throwing, kicking, or catching a ball, or walking or getting down from the sofa on his own. Cuddling for cuddling's sake has never been acceptable from the first moment; he prefers endorsement of his activites. When I nursed him naturally he averted his eyes from mine in a show of decency. And once I switched to a bottle he made it clear that he preferred to face away from me while I held it in his mouth. No, he does not hate me. In decent manly situations he's perfectly happy to send the most beautiful smile in the world my way.

Ian is is blessedly free from the need to ponder his own feelings and he gives his attention to objects external to himself. During the first weeks we had him home he managed to communicate to us his desire to be held up in front of the picture over our couch. He stared at it until my arms or Josh's gave out countless times. As soon as he was able he arranged matters so that when I held him he faced outward, not in. And from that vantage point he steered me as I walked, body stretched out in one taut line in the direction of his choice.

Ian is never of two minds on any subject.

Then one day he found that while lying on his tummy he could, by a feat of strength inolving his neck muscles, raise his head and look around him. Uncounted objects of mystery and intriuge presented themselves to his view - the pedals of a piano, three balls of various sizes and colors, a door stopper, CD's arranged by color in a shelf, shoes, legs, and tiny pieces of lint.

On that day the desire for conquest bloomed in his heart. He set himself a regimen, attempting to crawl long before he was ready. As soon as he could crawl he methodically taught himself to stand by holding on to objects. Then came cruising, and by now his progress was accelerating. He began to let go of his support for a few moments at a time while standing. Then, early this month he found himself in a squatting position on the floor. And from that position in a swift elegant movement he stood to his feet. And looked coolly at me. I applauded him joyfully. He shrugged. Within a week he was taking steps.

All this, so that he can appropriate every object in his father's house and close his mouth over it. Like a dog marking his territory. Or a king with a harem.

He is impervious to any normal pain or fear. If a chair falls on top of him that is one thing. He will condescend to cry - or rather roar in enraged protest. But from the first time the nurse at the hospital pricked his heel to the last time I tried sp*nking his bottom as a form of discipline, Ian responds quite coolly to these misadventures of life.

In fact, when it comes to discipline, resisting it is almost a sport. Only his father can intimidate him. Somehow, despite the fact that I am six or seven times as large as he is, he see right through to the fact that I'm a woman and he's not. All this in spite of the fact that his father is the gentlest man God ever made.

"No, Ian."

(Giggles.)

"Ian. Mama says NO. You must NOT do that."

(Giggles harder, continues with forbidden action.)

"I'm sorry, but I must punish you now."

(Wheels turning in head - she's sorry - she doesn't mean it - giggles become insane.)

I sl*p him as hard as I can bear to.

He outright roars with laughter.

In fact the only thing that ever moves him to do my will is a mixture of respect and gallantry. This usually involves my explaining to him in gory detail exactly what I went through to give him life. Perhaps this recital reminds me, as well as my son, who I am, and the self-respect that creeps into my voice renders him ammenable to helping me out a bit by doing what I'm telling him to do.

Ian himself understands many words but does not need them. All my efforts to incite him to say "ma-ma" and "da-da" are met with crushing inattention. His needs are simple and his ingenuity in making them known is admirable.

Let's say, for instance, he has decided that he and his red block need to ascend on to my lap. He throws the red block onto my lap, sending it before him in the faith that where his heart is he himself must follow. Then he stares earnestly into my eyes and makes a sound implying unutterable longing. Up he goes. Don't mistake his meaning. My lap is not a place of comfort but a launching pad for further conquests - the computer, a cup full of pens, a plate with the most astounding collection of crumbs leftover from my lunch.

Or let's say that he has decided that he's tired. He crawls into his room and fetches his bottle. He brings it to me and throws it on my lap. But before I can scoop him up he's off to his room again. Halfway there he stops and looks at me over his shoulder with an expression that clearly says "cottoned on yet?"

Of course if it's something he can get for himself, there's no need to let us know. Josh and I will never forget looking up from the sofa toward the kitchen where Ian was playing to see him surround in a perfectly shaped mound of cheerios, calmly placing one solitary O in his mouth.

There's one word, however, that he delights in saying. And it interests me because I had always assumed that at the heart of the desire to talk is the desire to name things. But Ian's one word, that he's willing to say over and over, is "Hi".

This is a very different kind of word than Mama or Ball. It's a word that you exchange with other people. It connects you to them on equal terms - they give it to you, you give it back. Like playing ball (to be distinguished from naming ball.)

It's a kind of ritual. And Ian loves rituals.

There's the one where I tell him what to do if he needs me when I am putting him to bed. I act out it, exxageratedly yelling "MAAAAA MAAAAA" (this, by the way, is the call of the wild kinterbeast - his greatest weapon - but more of that later) and then pretending to be me jogging back into the room saying breathlessly, with servile interest, "What is it, Little Baby Ian?" He laughs hysterically.

Then there's his getting up ritual. Once in my arms he wriggles himself into a steering position and heads for the shelf where there's a figurine of a pregnant woman. She came to me faceless but I painted a face on her during my own pregnancy. It's a face of patient suffering, latent fear, and hope beyond hope. Ian takes it in his hands. I tell him its name ("This is a figure of a mother, Little Baby Ian") and he gently and reverently inserts the entire head into his mouth. Then he puts it back on the shelf. Or rather he shoves it towards the shelf and I had better catch it before it heads for the floor.

And all of his favorite games are rituals. Repeating the same delightful action again and again, preferrably with the same form of words. Is he seeking form? Is he obssessive compulsive? Are obsessive compulsive people seeking form?

Ian has one use for the word 'mama'. He won't use it to please me or to engage me. He will only use it to boss me around.

For instance - say we are both taking a nap. I'm exhausted; he awakes before me. He stands up in his crib while I sleep peacefully, unsuspecting. He looks across the room. He sees his toys on the shelf. None of them are in the crib with him. He cannot get out of the crib on his own.

Then it comes: a high-pitched roar that nothing else in nature can duplicate, rending without pity my comforter of slumber. The wild, the untamable, the insistent cry of the Wild Kinderbeast.

"Maaaaaaa-MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"