Do wrong so that we can have the pleasure of fixing the wrong we’ve done? Johnny votes ‘Yes!’

Our CD Tower is this lovely wooden piano-themed fixture. It undulates rather than rising straight up, and its sides are covered in carved, painted, and polished piano keys, almost lifesize. It’s one of my favorite pieces, and like most of them it came from my Crazy Aunt No. 2.

It is a source of fascination to Johnny as it was to his Uncle Chaz before him (Chaz used to come down to my bedroom for fifteen-minute visits: we’d converse, listen to music, make shadows on my wall, and he’d usually end up pretending to play piano on the side of my CD Tower.)

Now Johnny (who prefers to plunk away at the real piano when the cover is off) has done his own pretending. (Can a fourteen-month-old play-act? Yes, when expedient. The other day he mimed drinking from a cup, complete with very accurated sound effects, in order to get it across to me that he was thirsty.)

But for Johnny the real attraction is the stacks of CD’s. They make a lovely clatter when a little boy pulls them out of their slots and flings them on the floor in sparkling plastic heaps. Then, of course, he has the pleasure of seeing his Mum freak out, holler “NO!” (this greatly amuses Johnny, who sees his Mum as the original push-over.) And then he gets to show off his “putting” skills by putting the CD’s back in their slots.

It’s a win-win.

Forget the experts for a moment - the truly wonderful thing about baby talk is that my baby loves it! No, he doesn’t seem to know it’s silly. And in fact I’m not sure it is. Like everything Johnny and I do together, it’s quite serious. Not glum, dull, drudgish, or somber. Serious as in meaningful.

I recently read an article from a University extension newlestter suggesting that some babytalk is necessary, natural, and useful. Calling a dog a doggie would help to emphasize the ‘g’ sound to an as-yet undiscriminating ear. Calling a baby a silly name doesn’t help them learn anything.

Utilitarian thinking strikes once again; aparently those who reduce human beings to a science cannot fathom the purpose of anything beyond the most basic mechanical helps. Where, I ask, will tomorrow’s fantasy writers be if everyone’s Mommy goes around saying, “he ate, he is eating, he will eat” and no one’s Mommy ever turns with a flourish from the stove holding a steaming plate of eggs and crows, “Mum gots Yumadoos for Johnny! Johnny gobble em!”

As a matter of fact the words of babytalk are merely the most external phenomena of a whole living room culture - mine and Johnny’s. It has its folk songs, its conventions, its rituals, its unspoken understandings and values…and yes, its language. Not merely words, but language, with linguistic rules.

One of our favorites rules is the “doo rule.” In this rule, any adjective can be turned into a noun and applied to a significant object by adding “doo” onto the end of that adjective. It’s also an intensifier.

According to this, Johnny, Daddy, and Mum might at different times wear the coveted title “Lovadoo”.

When Johnny gets his nose tickled by a ripe dandelion head, he hears about the “fluffadoo.” (Later on, when Johnny is in bed, he misses the scene where his Mum’s light mess of hair gets puffed on by his Dad and the word ‘fluffadoo’ comes out again, amid many slaps and scoldings.)

Of course there are yuckadoos and (according to a special extensions of the doo rule) yuckapoos, which should be carefully distinguished. My hope is that this will come in handy when potty training begins.

Once the poo-extension had been introduced, other extensions appeared. In this version, a verb can be tagged on to the end of a noun. Why? Well, to describe that noun according to its characteristic action, of course. What could be more natural?

According to this rule, the Mamasnatch appeared. I earned this name because of my propensity to pounce on poor Johnny out of nowhere, scoop him up in the air, swing him around, kiss him five or six times, and then plop him back down amongst his toys before he had time to pull his diplomatic “putting” crap on me. This  snatching skill also comes in useful when Johnny is running away from various necessitious operations such as a diaper-change or a nose-blow or a face-wipe. In fact it’s quite expressively indicative of that whole helpful-yet-interfering character of Mamas everywhere.

Another practice is to use primarily the most basic present tense form of verbs. It’s almost as if the verb gets turned into a noun in order to make it more pliable when its first being learned. So if Johnny throws his ball, threw it, or is being told to throw it, he hears the same basic form of expression: “Johnny throw ball.” Afterwards I usually clarify, “Johnny threw that ball” (I can never bring myself to sound quite so Dick-and-Jane as to actually say “the ball”; needless to say, “that” is one of Johnny’s favorite pointing words.)

What about pronouns? At an earlier stage Johnny’s Daddy and I commonly addressed Johnny as “him.” That is, we used to describe Johnny’s actions to him in third person: “Oooo, Johnny eat him yumadoos!” or, “Johnny break him toy. Naughty!” I’m sure this arose out of a desire to make Johnny more aware of his actions…besides, it was cute.

Of course, he soon reached a level of self-consciousness at which that form of address was ridiculous. So what did the Mamasnatch do? She invented a new form, of course! 

Introducing “Yoom”, the pronoun that is both objective and second-person. In contractions it gets shortened to “oom.” Like so, “Johnny eat-oom eggs?” or “Yoom socks (are) falling off!” Tell me that m-sound on the end of a pronoun of address isn’t comforting to a child who is first facing the dreadful reality of personal accountability. It softens it. Too many kids hear the word “you” in such a harsh, or accusatory, or dissatisfied, or exasperated tone of voice most of the time. In my opinion people have forgotten that the reason we have our children is to grant them the discipline and uinderstanding to be the people they have the potential to be.

Did I mentione the rituals, songs, conventions, and values?

In our living-room culture, duckies hold a place of special honor. When Johnny gets out of bed in the morning he has three ritual actions with which he begins his day. First, he kisses the cross that hangs on his bedroom wall. Then he pounces on his Daddy, sleeping or awake (so much more to his Mum’s delight if sleeping.) Then he snatches up the nearest duckie in a manner reminiscent of his Mum and begins to sing, “AAAHHHH…duttie. AAAHHHH…duttie.”

He’s referring, of course, to the duckie verse of the Johnny song.

Little Baby Johnny,

In the Bubbly Stream.

All the yellow duckies

See him getting clean.

Little Baby Johnny

There’s no need to scream.

All is warm and pleasant

In the bubbly stream.

All the yellow duckies

All the yellow duckies

All the yellow duckies

All the yellow duckies,

All the yellow duckies

See him getting clean,

On his scrubbing team

In the Bubbly Stream.

How do I know that Johnny won’t end up behind in language skills? Well, theoretically I know it because the living room language evolves and grows up with Johnny. Where once I said, “Johnny drop him ball” I now say, “Did you drop yoom ball? ooooo…” When it’s clear Johnny understands what I’m saying, I straighten an expression out, gradually filling in be-verbs and pronouns. I don’t have to be afraid he’s going to miss the point in the midst of all those extra words because he already knows the high points, the basic structure of the sentence.

But I also know from experience. In this case I’m doing much as my Mom did.  And I have to say, that from my naturally inarticulate beast of a brother, to my calculated sister, to the ever-verbose Me, no family I know uses language as colorfully and to such effect as we do. It’s a pleasure to go home for the holidays.

Remind me to post my brother’s “Dave” story some time…

“From his viewpoint it must be akin to alien abduction.”

Johnny’s current stage is to practice “putting” things.

Earlier it was “unputting” them. I would build a castle of blocks; his delight was to knock them down. I would put a pen away in the drawer, he would labor away at the drawer to open it and pull all the pens out.

 My hope was that this pulling out and knocking down would translate into the knowledge of building up and putting away. Luckily, it has.

Now he actually wants to practice setting one block on top of the other. The old pan I gave him to play with (no, we aren’t that poor, Johnny simply prefers “real” objects to toys) turns into a basketball hoop and a storage place for little yellow duckies and triangular red blocks.

Part of his typical morning routine will probably include removing the couch cushions and setting a broken necklace, three or four blocks, a yellow duckie, and a couple of pens in its place. Then he climbs up and sits proudly next to them for about half a second. Then he throws the necklace, blocks, duckie, and pens on the ground. Climbs down after them. And starts the whole process over.

I think he must be imitating my picking-up and putting-away practice. (No, I don’t stash pens and jewelry under the couch cushion.)

What’s truly funny is when his little “putting” excercises generate evidence that he has been rooting around in places he’s not allowed.

Last night when I opened the hutch doors to get some noodles, I found the rice bag neatly nestled inside one of Ian’s toy stacking bowls. Scottie and I laughed over that one, but not as much as over the little yellow duckie I found planted, like a little flag of defiance, deep in the bowels of the chemical cabinet, the one I always keep tied shut and usually discipline Johnny or at least scold him for trying to get into.

Why do I find these things so funny? They aren’t ridiculous. They are amusing to the eyes of love. Johnny trudges around the appartment with such a businesslike expression on his face. Everything he does is so serious.

Except when his Daddy comes home or when we have been tossing his boll into that old pot and one of us scores. Then he jumps up and down, something a kid his age and weight shouldn’t even be able to do. And screams with delight.

Johnny has long used “putting” for a very important mechanism - getting to where he wants to go. When he was about two weeks old he began to express unutterable longings to patrol the entire appartment nine or ten times a day. He wanted to look at all the pictures and see a close-up view of every object. How did I know this? Well, I can only describe his behavior as “steering.” Once in my arms, he would look around for what he wanted to see, and then his whole body would turn into an intensely vibrating rudder to “steer” me in the direction he wanted to go. Once he got there he would stare with a most intelligent expression at the picture or the globe or the magnet. Then off we’d go to the next.

 Crawling and walking followed much later, but though his speech skills are highly undeveloped, he still has his ways of communicating where he wants to go if he’s not being allowed. The most amusing example is when someone picks him up and he has a toy in his hands.

Hey - that’s rude. I was manipulating this immensely important Object down there, and suddenly I find myself suspended in space miles from the floor. I can’t help it I’m inexpressibly cute. From an adult point of view, I can understand the desire to squish Johnny in your arms and kiss him at least twenty times. From his point of view the experience must be something like alien abduction.

Johnny handles this situation diplomatically - he ostentatiously throws the toy to the ground before him. Then slowly, gently he begins to slide or lean down after the toy. The message is so clear that most people burst out laughing and let him down. Johnny only uses kicking, screaming, and etc. as a last resort. He learned that from his father.

Last night I stood in the porch of heaven. Angels were singing to the Mother who bore God about what a wonderful occasion it was when she first entered the Temple: the vessel prepared for the Lord’s entrance into our world had come at last to the holy place, a foreshadowing of his soon coming.

“The Lord whom ye seek shall suddenly come to his Temple.”

I stood respectfully in the back since I had entered late. The stiffness in my back disappeared as I took my place next to dear St. Nicholas, who has been a good friend to my family in recent days. He wears a kind, mild, or merry expression most of the time, but has been known to be stern on occasion and my dear Father says that once he looked positively smug.

 My attention, however, was drawn to what was happening further in. Through the dark glass windows I could see into the very heaven, where Christ stood blessing his people. I bowed to him - what a relief.

I did not know the song, but some others on the porch were singing along with the angels. I chimed in at “Lord, have mercy” and saw that he was acknowledging my best attempt to join the praise.

Then it was over, or nearly over. I approached slowly to a window through which I could look and see the Mother of God, that meek and courageous maiden whose obedience brought her to the heights of glory. I made a kiss at her hand through the window and looked down, ashamed. I who am less than her may still follow her example.

Then I looked up and through another window I saw a flash of brilliant clarity - Christ beckoning me to come nearer. I could not yet pass through the window to him but rejoicing I kissed his window also, and his holy cross, and recieved his final blessing. Around me others who are before me were putting out the lights.

We looked through a few more windows at various saints, and through one behind which the Holy Trinity itself is said to be visible, though it was too great for me to see. Then we left the presence of God to keep our porch till we should need it next.

Narnia, Middle Earth, every place of longing - it is all the Church. I love Orthodoxy.

My one-year-old son, Johnny, is a merry little soul. I read a sentence somewhere about “the solid, unkillable children of the poor” and that reminds me of him. We are not destitute but Scottie and I both come from lower-middle-class families and Johnny has not exactly had all the advantages. He gets plenty to eat, people give him second-hand toys (but he loves the yellow duckie I got him from the dollar store best) and we keep his bedroom heated even when the rest of the house is cold. And somehow I was never afraid that this one wasn’t going to make it. He’s just too strong.

The funny thing is, Johnny’s a risk-taker. It’s as if he knows he’s one of those unkillable children and he has a surfeit of safety he needs to use up. Naturally, I have to restrain him from danger at every turn. It falls to me to determine what discipline is necessary when he insists on running into the street or playing with bottles of chemicals.

All of this came together this morning in one of those moments where you have to punish a child but you are trying really hard not to laugh. Johnny would not sit down in his high chair for any pleading or scolding or reasoning. He just looked at me with that exact grin you see in the picture and reasoned back, calling up his best baby words in well-modulated tones.

 So it came down to a smack on the bottom. The point, especially at this age, is not to hurt him. It’s just to put some force behind my command. So I smacked him and gently, carefully sat him back down. This happened maybe three or four times.

I was making his eggs and realized he’d been quiet for awhile so I turned around and he was standing up again. I was so frustated I didn’t say or do anything. I just looked at him with a cocked eyebrow and gave him a chance to do the right thing.

He cocked his eyebrow back, that arched one he gets from me. “Naughty” he said clearly, and looked back at me sternly. Within seconds he was bending over my knee while I laughed silently.

 Johnny, like Harriet and Lord Peter’s son, is simply willing to accept a punishment every now and then in exchange for  adventure forbidden. It’s even possible that he was simply born with extra good judgment. (From my viewpoint it’s a dangerous risk to allow him to stand up in his high chair. From his point of view it might not be a risk at all as long as he keeps one hand on the backboard.) When I try to imagine what this will look like twenty years from now I see a strong, confident young man who, though not reckless, can judge with finer precision than I where to draw the line and when to take a chance.

A cautious, docile child is easier to raise, but a cautious, docile adult will miss out on a lot of life because of his inability to calculate and stratify risks, or to make decisions and feel confident about them. I believe it’s a mistake to try to break the will of a child like Johnny.

In fact, I believe it’s a sin to break any part of a child, spiritual or physical. Building up, not destruction, is the aim of the good parent.

In this context, discipline becomes more an informing ritual than a harrowing experience. That firm smack on the bottom when he disobeys a command from his Mum may be the danger that makes his life worth while but it’s also his first, most deeply-felt clue that there is a moral dimmension to the Universe.

“A man who involuntarily obeys any direct command and only thinks about it afterward is an automatic nominee for Best Husband of Year Award“ 

This morning my beloved husband and I woke up late because we stayed long at vespers last night. I went into Johnny’s room and changed and fed him. When I returned to the bedroom Scottie (my husband) was still in bed, staring at the ceiling in the midst of one of his daydreams. That’s not the part that bothers me because I know he’s just thinking about how many points to charge for his space-dwarf blasters in the Warhammer race he’s inventing. (Yes, my husband’s hobby is playing toy soldiers with other fully-grown men. No, I didn’t know that could happen, either.)

 I didn’t truly yell at my well-loved lord and master, but I did pull off a very nice faux-yell.

“Get UP!”

 He jumped out of bed like his butt was on fire.

I fled from the room laughing while my adored spouse called threats after me to the effect that if I continued to impersonate his drill seargants the consequences to my derriere would be dire.

 It’s helpful for military wives to know that they can put all that government training to good use every now and then. A man who involuntarily responds to a direct command, and thinks about it only afterward, is an automatic nominee for the Best Husband of Year Award.

 Spread the good news.