Parenting: Month XIII

Excerpted from
Autobiography of a One-Year-Old
By Rohan Candappa

You Need Hands

On the whole, a damn good idea. Hands are, so far, the most useful part of me that I have discovered. You can pick things up with them. You can drop things with them. You can throw things with them. You can hit things with them. You can scratch and hit parents with them. You can get them caught in doors. And drawers. And small spaces. Because hands are located on the ends of arms (a very fine arrangement), you can reach up with them and pull things down. Plus, my own personal favorite, you can wave them around for no particular reason.

Hands are also useful for getting around on. Crawling would be a lot trickier it you didn't have hands. Or if they were positioned anywhere other than on the ends of your arms. Obviously a lot of thinking has gone into the working of hands; to whoever was responsible, I would like to extend my most sincere thanks.

However, I must admit it was a moment of some perplexity when I realized (way back in my first year of being) that the hands that followed me around were actually attached to me. The insight that these little fellows were under my control was a revelation. Although, in the beginning, it is probably more accurate to say my hands were "under my influence." I'd want them to grab a ball. The hands would go for the ball, then, at the last moment, knock it away. I'd want them to pick up a twig from the ground and put it in my mouth; the hands would decide to poke me in the eye with it instead. I would want them to stroke Smooth's face in a way that conveyed love, respect and admiration, but they would whack into her with a gouging ferocity that almost scarred her for life.

So early on, my hands were, excuse the pun, a bit of a handful.

My control over them extended to little more than suggesting things they might like to get involved with. Much as you might suggest to a recalcitrant puppy that it might like to get off your head now, I would suggest to my hands that they might like putting a piece of peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my mouth. Then all I could do was sit back and see if my hands would take up the suggestion. Yes, it was frustrating. Yes, I did end up with a lot of PB&J in my hair, over my cheeks, and on one memorable occasion between my toes. (Okay, I'll admit that I was trying to see if I could get my whole foot in my mouth.)

What I discovered was that over time the hands became much more amenable to suggestions. I suppose I was getting the hang of them. Or maybe they were just resigning themselves to the fact that they were stuck with me so we might as well move on and work on things together.

Now, it there are any youngsters out there reading this who are finding that they are having a tough time with their own hands and are considering chucking it all in and trying to start doing things with their feet instead, I'd just say, don't. Stick with your hands. Persevere. It gets more accurate. And it gets more fun. You can do it. I know you can. Even though I'm quite good with my hands now, I'm humble enough to know that I've still got a lot to learn. Frankly I can't wait. The other day I spotted Hairy using his hands to pull things out of the wall, just where it meets the floor, and uncovering two little holes. I'm not sure, hut I've got a pretty good idea that if I can get those things out of the wall myself when no one's looking, then those two holes are just about the right size for me to get my fingers into. Wouldn't that be great?

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, But Honestly They Taste Better Than the Goo I Get Fed Most of the Time

Why do I put things I find on the ground in my mouth? I know there's a theory that says I'm not actually trying to eat the things hut merely trying to feel them on account of the fact that the nerves in the mouth develop faster than the nerves in, for example, my fingers. Well, wrong! I am trying to eat the things. Because on the whole they taste better than the "Give us this day our daily goo" that gets pushed toward me at regular intervals. And not only goo, but tepid and occasionally ice-cold goo.

As for the color of the goos in question, please don't get me started. Do the parents not even have a basic grasp on presentation? Apparently not. Today's menu, for instance, was tepid taupe goo to start, with chilled beige goo to follow, rounded off with crunchy woodchip-style zwieback as the piece de resistance. You want to know why we go for zwiebacks in such a big way? They may not taste of anything, but at least you can feel the damn things in your mouth. Hence our endless foraging for something to eat.

But why do we insist on picking things up off the floor to eat?

Come on. Think about it. It's all we can reach.