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Taking Suggestions
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And About the Self-Righteous Breastfeeding Folks
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Twice the Pressure, Half the Speed
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Unanswerable
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Mind Reading
We do it all the time with pets- put words in their mouths. My terrier, for instance, frequently poses various philosophical questions about the weather (distaste for damp paws), expresses vague misanthropy (strange, since he is so social and attention-hoggy), and generally speaks in a voice that sounds not unlike that of his mistress.
But I've also become interested in the way we do this with children. I'm not talking about the standards: "Why is he crying? Is he hungry? Is he tired? What if I give him this train? He'd throw it at my head, that's what. Maybe he needs to be bounced, or- Oh. He wanted to be left alone."
What I'm thinking about is the way artists become taken with the unknowable that is in the infant mind. Let me dispense first with the whole Look Who's Talking phenomenon, with which I am only familiar by name. I have not seen them and I don't think you could pay me.
But beyond that, there's a whole kaleidoscope of fantasies about the mystery that is toddler. This is in my mind because my father proudly handed me a creepy volume of cartoons called The Book of Leviathan by musician and illustrator Peter Blegvad (the comic strips were originally published in the UK's Independent newspaper, which is also responsible for bringing you Bridget Jones). Leviathan (Levi) is a faceless toddler with two primary companions (stuffed bunny, "real" cat) who see what he sees and accompany him on his adventures- from which his parents and older sister are excluded.
While the strips are often rather scholarly (which, given the title, is no surprise) there is a real poignancy to some of the stories when Levi wakes seeking comfort in his parents. If you like Little Nemo and Calvin and Hobbes, you'll at least be intrigued by Leviathan.
And all of this reminded me of a favorite passage from a Jasper Fforde novel that I read last summer in a fit of new-mother malaise. The Big Over Easy is exceptionally charming, but I now truly appreciate a moment in the book where a guest arrives at the detective hero's house and tries to strike up a conversation with his youngest child, who still dines in a highchair. Everyone is ecstatic to discover that their guest speaks "baby gibberish" (having studied it at an adult-education center). Unfortunately the baby has moved on linguistically and converses in "either pre-toddler nonsense, a form of infant burble or an obscure dialect of gobbledygook."
This sets everyone back at square one, which is where I am. Every day I turn over all the possible ramifications of "Aaiya" and wonder what sorts of dreams my son has that make him into a Cirque du Soleil worthy contortionist.
posted by Elise at 6:45 PM
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