Predictability

Tom (11.99 months old) is getting to the stage now where he’s starting to combine things, to see what happens. There’s all kinds of fun to be had. Wooden blocks clack together, but don’t stick. A ball placed on another ball falls off, but a ball placed on a large plastic ring (or on the donut-like opening of my computer’s sub-woofer) centres itself and stays there in a very satisfying way. So satisfying in fact, that it seems essential to take it out and put it in again… and again… and again.

That’s how babies minds work, I think, they thrive on discovered predictability. It’s not enough to try something once to see what happens, you have to do it again to see if what happened still happens. Then do it a dozen or so more times just to really be sure. While I watch Tom doing it, I can almost hear the little neurons in his bonce strengthening by repeated use.

Tom’s at an age where he’s still learning about the basic physical properties of the world around him, and predictability is important. Balls bounce, wheels roll, blocks stack or tumble.

One of Tom’s Christmas presents was an electronic activity centre. The V-Tech “My First Steps Walker”, a baby walker with a panel on the front featuring an electronic cornucopia of lights and buttons for little fingers to press. I’m a gadget freak, so it’s actually to my surprise that, where toys are concerned, I’ve become a bit of a Luddite. Because for all its electronic wizardry, the My First Steps Walker isn’t predictable, and that makes me question its value as a toy for very small kids.

Press the blue circular button marked with a “1” and a friendly lady’s voice will say “one!”, but press it again and it says instead “blue circle!”. So is the little tyke supposed to learn that blue circular buttons say “one”, or that buttons marked “1” say “blue circle”?

It gets worse than that; flip the wings of the yellow plastic butterfly and the whole gadget changes function. Now it’s not “teaching” about shapes and colours and numbers, it’s teaching about “music”. The blue circular button doesn’t say “blue” or “circle” or “one”; now it says “rock and roll!”, and launches into the least rock-and-roll bit of music you’ve ever heard.

Now, I know eventually Tom will need to learn that things aren’t predictable, and that most buttons on electronic gadgetry do different things at different times. Eventually, probably sooner rather than later, he’ll work out that a computer can do an infinite number of things with just a few dozen buttons. But first, I think, he needs the predictability. He need to press the blue circular button and for it to say “blue circle!” every time, so that he delights in the fact that he predicted it was going to say that.

I wouldn’t take the V-Tech walker away from him, because he enjoys bashing away at it, particularly the spinny cogs bit. But I don’t think it’s really teaching him much yet, and I’d much rather he spent an instructive 5 minutes repeatedly dropping the same ball into the same hole. Unpredictability can wait.

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Where it Began (I Can’t Begin to Know When)

There’s a place I remember, it’s jumbled and indistinct because it’s on the very edge of my memory. It’s made up of chunky jumpers with crazy zigzag designs, sandpits with toy boats floating on a sea of coarse orange builder’s sand, and door curtains of colourful plastic ribbons that waft in the endless summer breeze. Everything is tinged slightly Polaroid brown, and songs by Neil Diamond play on the radio all the time. It’s a place where laughter and happiness linger, because sadness hadn’t been invented yet and pain could be wafted away with a kiss and a Mickey Mouse sticking plaster. It’s the place that is my earliest childhood memories.

I was playing with Tom at the weekend, bouncing him on my knees in time to the Glee sountrack album I’d bought (my current Gleekdom is a subject for another post!). Tom was smiling and laughing, and Jane was standing at my shoulder taking some pictures. The song playing was a cover of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline”, and as some songs can, it immediately transported me back to when I first heard it, back to that Polaroid-tinged place and time. I could taste the happy memories.

And, like the hugely soppy fool I am, I realised I was crying. Big happy tears. On some level I sensed that a huge circle was being completed, and by having my own little family I was getting back to a place I’d left 30-odd years ago. The setting is totally different, and I’m playing a different part, but it’s the same.

My son’s too young to start having permanent memories yet, but when he does I want them to be memories like those. Aimlessly happy random memories that ring with laughter, music and wonder. I want for him to never have to grow up and learn all the bad things that happen; and simultaneously I want for him to grow up and learn all the things he possibly can. Maybe even one day sit with a small child on his knee and be transported back to those JPEG-tinged (or, whatever) days of the mid 2010s.

He’ll probably be as soppy about it as I am.

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Ignorance = Bliss

With nearly a year of fatherhood under my belt, I feel I’m now in a position to dole out sage advice to new fathers. My first piece of advice is this: don’t take advice from other fathers.

Actually, it’s okay to listen to advice from other fathers, as long as you remember that:

  • 75% of it won’t be relevant to your situation.
  • 20% of it they will have made up just to frighten you.
  • 5% of it will be true, and relevant, but so scary you’re better off not knowing until it happens.

Definitely, whatever you do, don’t buy a book on fatherhood. They’re just not worth the stress.

My wife went through a spate of buying books about pregnancy and motherhood. She found them reassuring, because she’s one of these people who takes comfort in knowing as much as possible about what to expect and what can go wrong. I’m of the opposite camp. The Ignorance is Bliss camp.

(Actually we don’t really have a camp, it’s more of a muddy hole in the ground covered in a tarp. None of us fancied going to the lecture about making proper camps.)

The trouble with books about parenthood is the information they impart basically falls into two categories: Things That Should Happen, and Things That Shouldn’t Happen. The first category is stuff like “crawling, talking, breathing”, the latter stuff like “turning green, smoking, head revolving Exorcist stylee.”

“By month eight,” a parenting book cheerfully announces, “your child should be reading small books of French poetry, occasionally looking up to exclaim sagely ‘ah! so true!’ and gaze wistfully out of a window”.

I look over at my son (who’s engaged with opening and closing the wardrobe door, each time with a yelp of surprise that, even after the 500th repetition, it still contains The Inside of a Wardrobe) and feel more than a little like a failed parent.

They do say in the book that these developmental milestones are just for the “average” baby. But I don’t want to be told that my son is below average in anything! It just makes me feel bad.

The other problem with reading the milestones is that, for me, they totally ruin all the surprises. I want to be totally amazed every time my son does some little new thing, I don’t want spoilers.

Then under the “Things Your Child Shouldn’t Be Doing”, the books delight in doing stuff like listing the symptoms of all the myriad rare genetic diseases you should be looking out for. This merely induces in me a state of hypochondria by proxy… what if that mark above his eye isn’t a scratch, but the first signs of the onset of a horrible skin wasting syndrome named after the only two people who ever had it?!

It’s all rather upsetting, and I’d much rather be safe back in my muddy hole under the tarp.

Actually, I’d much rather be totally clueless, but handily have a wife who’s read all the books and knows pretty much exactly what to do. Which luckily is what I have. Ignorance with instant knowledge on tap, that’s true bliss.

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The Great Toddler Bedtime Book Conspiracy

I’ve noticed something about books for small children. It’s something so insidious you may not have spotted it, even if (like us) you already have an extensive library of picture books to entertain your wee ones.

There’s a covert propaganda campaign being fought. A campaign which, despite all its subtlety, has a very clear message: go to sleep, sleep is good, bedtime is the best time ever.

Now, like most parents of small children I guess, I value the times my son is asleep. It’s nice to have relaxed periods when your little bundle of joy is inert and not careering headlong from one deadly hazard to the next. So I’m all for gently persuading children that sleep is a good thing. I just think that maybe the publishers have gone way overboard in pushing the bedtime agenda.

Tom has several books explicitly about the bedtime ritual. Maisy’s Bedtime and How do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight? are two examples, and they’re great books too. But then bedtime seems to crop up at the end of nearly all his other books too.

I think it’s partly because the books are designed to be read at bedtime, and the authors think perhaps if they put in lots of stuff about yawning and brushing teeth and kissing goodnight before drifting quietly into slumber, the child being read the story will take the hint and obediently nod off too.

But partly, I think, the reason why so many picture books end with the main character going to sleep is that the authors couldn’t be bothered to think of a proper ending.

They tend to go into so much detail, too. Just to fill space. Nitty gritty about brushing teeth, and picking favorite teddies, and being read bedtime stories. I mean what’s the point of reading a bedtime story about reading a bedtime story?

It’s something you never see in books for grown ups. Sure, characters go to sleep, but I can’t think of any novel where the last chapter has been all about the protagonist getting ready for bed.

I mean, it would really bugger up the end of Jane Eyre

Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had. That very evening we returned to the manor house, and having carefully brushed our teeth, washed our faces, each chosen our favorite teddy bears and changed into our night attire, retired to our beds and fell blissfully asleep.

F I N I S

See? Rubbish. And yet we expect our children to put up with it.

Anyway, rant over. It’s time I went to bed.

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The Persistence of Bananas

One of the things that I was really looking forward to with having my own children was the chance to see a mind be created. To me this has to be the ultimate miracle of nature, that something so intricate and complex (the most complex thing in the universe, as far as we know) can be made, effectively, from nothing.

The trouble is, once you actually have a child, you realise that you don’t have much of a chance to sit back in rapt wonder as your progeny’s intelligence unfurls before your eyes. You’re too busy at the coal face, helping, teaching (or at least trying to) and cleaning up the mess afterwards. Great leaps in understanding either pass too quickly to catch, or too slowly to notice.

The only real way you notice how things have changed is when you take your child’s current intelligence and abilities for granted, and then they suddenly and effortlessly exceed them.

Take the other day, when Tom learned about the Persistence of Bananas.

Little babies live in the naked now. As far as they’re concerned, things that happened then have nothing to do with what’s happening now, or what’s going to happen. Objects only exist only while they’re within their field of vision, and after they’ve gone they might as well never have existed.

Until they develop the concept of persistence. The idea that things like mummies and daddies and balls and teddies can go away but still exist to return at a later time.

It’s hard to know when Tom started to twig this, but he has. Especially with bananas.

The other day I was feeding Tom a banana, taking small lumps off with my fingers for him to delicately take between thumb and forefinger and then indelicately shovel into his cake-hole. About half way through he lost interest and merrily crawled off to find something to creatively destroy (as is his wont). I assumed that he’d had his fill of bananery goodness for that day and, without much thought, polished the rest of it off.

A few minutes later he crawled back again, and clambered up my knees, grinning. I grinned back, and as I still had it in my hand, showed him the empty banana peel.

I’ve never seen anyone’s face sink so fast or so far. He immediately burst into tears. Even a fresh banana couldn’t console him.

My little boy had developed a Theory Regarding the Persistence of Bananas, and had confidently wandered off, safe in the knowledge that the banana would still exist. Only to return and cruelly be proved wrong. I felt really awful.

But, at the same time, amazed and proud. It was a tiny insight into a brand new mind forming. The most complex thing in the universe, tenaciously wishing itself into existence.

And there’ll always be more bananas.

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Great Apps for Babies

Ever since Tom has been old enough to use his hands, he’s been fascinated by my iPhone and Jane’s iPod. It’s amusing to see how blasé he is about the technology involved, especially the touch screen, which he picked up in no time at all. In the same way that young children now expect to be able to see a photo on the back of a camera a moment after you’ve taken it, Tom will grow up expecting gadgets to have touch screens, anything less will seem horribly antiquated.

While it would be nice to keep his banana-smeared mitts completely off my expensive gadgetry, but Tom is remarkably persistent, and I’m basically a big softy, so it seemed easiest to track down some iPhone apps that were suitable for well-supervised baby play. Here are some of the best that I’ve found.

Bab Bab Lite
The “lite” represents the free version, the full version has more features but I found the basic functionality of the lite version perfectly adequate.

Bab Bab basically turns your iPhone into a baby rattle. Three shapes float around the screen, and shaking the iPhone makes them fly around, sparking vibrant patterns and musical chimes when they collide. The shapes can also be moved with a finger, making it a fairly tactile experience as well.

Everything about Bab Bab is delightfully Japanese, from the cutesy graphics to the bamboo-like clunking sound of the shapes colliding. It’s too simple to be entertaining for very long, and I’d question the sanity of letting a baby really shake an iPhone which is liable to be bouncing off the pavement a few seconds later, but it’s a great way to distract a little baby for a short while.

Bab Bab Screenshot Bab Bab Screenshot Bab Bab Screenshot

Peek-a-Bouncer
This is the iPhone version of one of the many baby games available on the excellent Kneebouncers web site. The Kneebouncers are a collection of friendly looking animals, all rendered in saturated primary hues. The idea is very simple, touching the screen causes it to open like a pair of curtains, revealing a random Kneebouncer who says “peek-a-boo!”. Releasing the screen closes the window again.

Great for babies who like playing peek-a-boo, but I found that Tom had trouble holding the iPhone in a way that wasn’t touching the screen somewhere, thus keeping the window permanently open. It would be nicer if the app used the iPhone’s multi-touch functionality to work out what the babies hands were doing and react accordingly.

Peek-a-bouncer screenshot Peek-a-bouncer screenshot Peek-a-bouncer screenshot

Talking Carl
This isn’t really an app designed for babies, and I actually downloaded it for my own amusement but found Tom loved it. Talking Carl repeats back everything you say to him, in a squeaky high-pitched voice. It took Tom a little while to work out what was going on, but now he has little shouting competitions with Carl, each trying to out-squeak the other. Tom also likes the way Carl reacts to being prodded with a finger; different animations such as Carl laughing when he’s tickled and crying “OW!” when you poke him in the eye.

Talking Carl Screenshot Talking Carl Talking Carl

The Little Red Hen
One of the first apps I downloaded for Tom’s sake, this little animated storybook is very well executed. With The Little Red Hen, you can choose to have the story read to you (by a cute-sounding little girl with an English accent) or you can read aloud yourself. Each page has a limited amount of interactivity; click the hen and she clucks, click the cat and she meows, etc. Nothing ground-breaking but just the right level of interactivity for a little baby to understand and enjoy.

Little Red Hen Screenshot Little Red Hen Screenshot

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Fledgling

Tom sat in the garden, so entranced by the sunny day going on around him that he barely moved. I grabbed Jane’s camera and took a few photos, including this one.

We watched a recently fledged bird flitting about the patio, waiting in the safety of our garden for his feathers to fully grow in. Tom seemed to know how he felt.

Tom in the garden

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Entropy Anthropomorphised

Scientists have a concept called “entropy”. It is, simply put, the amount of disorder in any given system. Compare, say, a Macintosh to a McFlurry. A Mac doesn’t have much entropy, a McFlurry has loads of the stuff.

Things tend to head towards entropy rather than away. It’s easy to make a pile of wires and broken plastic out of a Macintosh, but it’s a lot harder to make a Macintosh out of a pile of wires and broken plastic. Equally it’s quite hard to turn a McFlurry back into its constituent… whatever the hell it is they make McFlurries out of. But you get the idea.

Ancient peoples tended to take big scary natural processes and anthropomorphise them; make them human. Or, more accurately, make them gods.

Thus you had the Gods of Thunder, and the gods of the sun, and the seasons, and the floods. Each job given to a vaguely humanoid personage, so we could blame them for why everything is so crap all the time. The ancient equivalent of a cabinet minister.

The ancients didn’t anthropomorphise entropy, probably because entropy hadn’t been invented back then. They didn’t have McFlurries, for starters.

This is all going somewhere… I think I may have fathered the God of Entropy.

I realise that this is a major claim, but I have proof.

Ever since Tom has been able to move of his own accord, he’s shown a single-minded determination to destroy. Not just chew things, or bash things, or drop things on the floor. I understand that all babies do that. Tom seems to be far more dedicated.

If you make a pile of blocks, he’ll immediately knock it over. If you make a pile of blocks on the other side of the room, he’ll immediately crawl across just to knock it over. He doesn’t do it with a squeal of delight, or any kind of emotion at all. Just a certain grim workmanlike determination. Because it’s his job. Because he’s the God of Entropy.

He has a general dislike for anything being on top of another thing. Our coffee tables are now merely bare centerpieces to the piles of magazines, letters and books strewn around then.

Pass him a toy while he’s seated in a high chair, and within seconds he will have dropped it on the floor, gazing bemusedly over the side to see where it’s gone. Jane claims that he’s simply “testing gravity”, but I’m pretty sure even Issac Newton only lobbed a few things on the floor before he got the hang of it, and he bloody invented gravity!

Tom chucks stuff on the floor because gravity is his friend and weapon. Because he’s the God of Entropy.

Jane and I were admittedly never the tidiest people before Tom came along. But even we stare in wonder at the share scale of untidiness he can muster in a few short seconds of unfettered access to, say, a sock drawer.

It’s because he works at the untidiness. Because, I’m pretty sure now, he is the God of Entropy.

The worrying thing, and I hesitate to tell you this, is that entropy is insidious. Scientists tell us that you can always do work to restore order, but you can never quite get back to where you started. A little bit of energy is lost to entropy forever.

Eventually, entropy will destroy the universe.

I may have fathered the doom of Mankind.

He’s cute though.

The God of Entropy

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That’s Not My… Bloody Everything Apparently

That's Not My Carburettor

If you’ve ever perused the kiddywink section of a bookshop, you’ve almost certainly come across the “That’s Not My…” series of books. If not, let me explain to you the basic plot of every one.

A mouse (the unnamed protagonist of the series) sets out to find a thing. On the way he find several things of the same class as the thing he wants to find, but each featuring some flaw which immediately identifies to the painstakingly exacting mouse that this thing isn’t the thing that he wanted. Usually the flaw is texture based, and the picture accompanying the text ingeniously incorporates a patch which exhibits the properties which the mouse finds so abhorrent. The patch is very tactile, and teaches small children valuable lessons about poking and prodding their grubby fingers at everything valuable you own.

Eventually the nameless, obsessive mouse finds the thing he was looking for, and lives happily ever after. Presumably until the next time he mislays one of his many possessions.

The original That’s Not My book was about puppies. People obviously suspended disbelief about a mouse owning a puppy, and it sold so well it spawned a never ending series. There’s now an entire floor of my local Waterstones dedicated to just That’s Not My books.

The authors obviously started running out of ideas – faced with increasing demands from the publishers – as the subjects have started getting increasingly far-fetched. My son has, I kid you not, a “That’s Not My Pirate” book. I mean, how could anybody, let alone a small mouse own a bloody pirate?

(By the way, if you own That’s Not My Pirate, the pirate with the too-glittery cutlass, he’s supposed to be gay, right?)

I can’t see them stopping producing ever more That’s Not My books. And eventually, of course, there’ll be the inevitable movie adaptation.

I can see it now. Tom Hanks as The Mouse, searching for his mysteriously vanished wife. He’s called to the morgue to identify a body. The coroner pulls back the sheet. Tom looks down. Touches the face of the cold dead mouse lying before him. Suddenly gasps with relief…

“That’s not my wife! Her nose is too bobbly!”

Posted in Daddyblogging, Fantasies, Japery, Opinion | Tagged , , , , | 12 Comments

Who’s the Daddyblogger?

Dan has written an interesting post over at all that comes with it regarding the nature of “Daddyblogging”. The standard definition of a Daddyblogger appears to be more than just a dad who blogs, as there are no doubt thousands of blogs being written by men who also happen to be fathers. A daddyblogger is, more particularly, a dad who blogs about being a dad.

I stopped myself from using the word “parenting” at the end of that last sentence after a sudden realisation that I hate the word. Parenting is one of those horrible nouns-forced-into-verbs that exist only for officialdom to use as replacements for more emotive and meaningful words. When a father mends a bike, changes a nappy, or beams with pride at his child’s latest achievement, he’s not “parenting”, he’s being a dad.

I am spending a fair amount of my time being a dad, of late, and my blog has obviously reflected this. I, like Dan, kind of baulk at the idea of being confined by the definition of being a “daddy blogger”. I think specialising too much in that way limits creativity and interest for both the author and the reader.

Those who know me well will know this isn’t my first blog. My previous blog was, ostensibly, about a fairly specialist subject, but I made a big effort not to to be constrained by that subject when I wrote for it.

I like to think that it was for that reason I picked up many readers who didn’t have the slightest interest in the over-arching subject of my blog, including (probably) people like Dan himself. I also like to think that they might have learnt interesting stuff about the specialist topic I was blogging about which they would have never have been exposed to if I’d confined myself to blogging about just that topic.

God, I’m being terribly vague aren’t I? But I’m afraid when you’re on the run for revealing US military secrets that’s the nature of the beast.

So, anyway, call me a daddyblogger if you will, I’m more than happy to be counted as part of that crowd. But don’t expect every post to be about my thoughts on fatherhood, and definitely don’t come here looking here looking for examples of “parenting”!

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