2008 has been a noisy year in general, not least because Cieran is now talking in sentences, long and short, all day long, and often for a good chunk of the night, too. It's not just that Cieran talks or even that he talks a lot, it's more that he likes to provide a continuous commentary on his life and the lives of those around him. Cieran could surely have a future as talking head on televison if he wished. His level of discourse is already at about the right level for a CNN news anchor, and way above that needed to host a morning show.
Cieran's razor sharp wit would do many a talk show host proud, while his perfect sense of comic timing could teach some comedians a thing or two. Somehow, one feels that his talents would be wasted on such a mediocre career. However, for posterity, I'd like to share with you a few of Cieran's recent observations on the world at large, his parents in particular, and the failings of all of the above. The following quotes come straight from the horse's (toddler's) mouth and were
recorded verbatim by his trusty scribes and attendants.
Cieran is not one to hide his emotions from the world. When he's happy or sad, excited or frustrated, he wants everyone to know, just in case they can help or join in. ``Oh man, that's pretty cool,'' he will say when something mildly interesting happens. ``That would be excellent!'' or ``I can't believe it!'' are the next level up, when something quite exciting is in the offing.
And what does Cieran do when he gets really enthusiastic? Well, in that case there is nothing for it but to clamber up on the furniture, hurl himself into the air and yell ``California and beyond!'' in the voice of Buzz Lightyear.
As befits a two-year old, potty humour is a regular feature of Cieran's conversation, as in ``Mommy, I'm not going to poop on the wall'' (he's such a well behaved boy really), or ``Daddy, why are you pooping in your underwear?'' (I really wasn't, honest). Like intellectuals everywhere, Cieran likes to keep his brain occupied while sitting on the pot. ``I need a good book'' he was heard to say recently while perched on the porcelain throne.
One wonders what kind of reading matter he had in mind. Recently he announced ``It's the perfect book!'' after picking up a huge scientific textbook on meteorites that was almost as big as he is. He subsequently lowered his opinion somewhat when he opened the cover and found the book was decidedly lacking in the picture department.
When it comes to eating and drinking, Cieran is highly particular most of the time. ``Get all of the vegetables out of my rice'' is a typical response to Mommy's stealthy efforts to inject a modicum of healthiness in his diet. ``No, but thanks!'' he is likely to say when offered a less than satisfactory dinner option.
Cieran is somewhat less discerning as long as sugar or chocolate are involved. More or less anything related to candy will do, preferably as a double helping. However, Cieran is kind and generous by nature and always willing to share ``You have a cupcake Daddy, when you grow up?''. Hasn't happened yet. Not likely any time soon, kid.
For some reason, Cieran seems to have acquired a taste or at least a fascination for tea. Perhaps its the Brit in him asserting itself. After a hard day's shopping recently, he announced ``Time to go home and make a nice cup of tea''.
Sometimes, this infatuation can go a little far. For example, Linds, with motherly affection: ``I love you Cieran'' Cieran: ``But I love Chai!'' (as in Chai tea!)
The showman in Cieran regularly bubbles to the surface. ``Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls!'' he declared just the other day. ``I'm getting my stepstool. Don't move guys!''
``You'll never find it now!'' He said not long ago, in a perfect imitation of Swiper the dastardly fox from Dora the Explorer.
Sometimes though, he gets just a little bizarre for my taste, or maybe Daddy just doesn't get it. For example, ``I woke up this morning and there was a red cricket in my bed.'' What on Earth?
Actually, that might have been the same day he announced ``I'm really tired'' at 9am when the evidence clearly suggested he was full of beans and just revving up for the day ahead.
Of course, occasionally Cieran just gets hold of the wrong end of the stick. ``I can't wait to go fishing!'' he once said on his way up stairs to help me clean the tropical fish tank. Then again, maybe he was just being practical.
And at times, he gets a little confused. ``Where did the stairs go?'' he said, looking somewhat dazed after walking into the wall and bumping his head.
More often, Cieran is right on the ball, which is more than can be said for his father.
Mommy: ``We made dinner on the stove.''
Daddy: ``Where's the stove, Cieran?''
Cieran: ``In the kitchen, of course!''
In fact, Cieran often has to make up for his parent's deficiencies, and is not shy about being critical when necessary. One example occurred recently during a marathon train-playing session with yours truly. Cieran was growing more and more frustrated with Daddy's ineptitude and his overall failure to get with the programme. Finally, when I picked up a large wooden box and suggested it would make an excellent train station, it was time to set the record straight. ``It's a gas station, actually!'' said Cieran emphatically.
Now I have to say Cieran can be a little bossy at times. Some examples:
``Move your fingers, Daddy'', when Cieran was opening a drawer of his train table.
``Daddy, I'm working on it!'' when it was suggested that perhaps he was moving a little too slowly getting ready one day.
``Daddy, Kepler's bugging me.'' regarding the cat, which is one I can sympathize with.
``You're a little brute!'' also at Kepler's expense.
``Daddy, move your butt!'' when I inadvertently got in the way of his push bike.
And last but not least: ``Daddy, no arsing!'' after Daddy accidentally and inexplicably said `arse' one day.
The flip side is that Cieran is fulsome in his praise on those rare occasions when his parents do something right. As in ``Clever boy, Daddy,'' for fixing his train track, or ``Excellent boy, Daddy,'' with two thumbs up for added emphasis.
And our little boy is always full of helpful suggestions for ways to improve efficiency in the Chambers household. On a recent trip to the grocery store, in the midst of heavy traffic, he very practically suggested ``Next time we need to drive the fire truck''. Not long afterwards, he announced ``Yeah, I want to be a firefighter when I grow up.'' So there may have been an ulterior motive involved in his earlier comment.
Cieran is never terribly patient when it comes to car journeys. ``Are we there yet?'' he asked once, only minutes after leaving the house. Being stuck at home is not always much better. One rainy Saturday afternoon recently, with his face pressed against the window watching rivulets of water trickle down the glass, he announced ``I'm done with home!''
On such dreary days, there's only one way to bring a little cheer to a cold and draughty house. As Cieran once said: ``I'd like a fire. I really do! The log is downstairs.'' As I sit here on a freezing winter's night, with the wind howling outside, I'm inclined to think that's a wonderful suggestion. In fact, I'll get right on it. Excellent boy, Daddy!
Monday 8 December 2008
Sunday 18 May 2008
Cieran the Scientist
It's official: Cieran is going to be a scientist. Either an astronomer or a meteorologist, or possibly a philosopher.
With hindsight, the signs were there all along. Cieran has been fascinated with the sun, the moon, the stars, planets, clouds, rain, and anything else to be found in the heavens. I remember several occasions recently when the three of us were out driving in the car and a little voice piped up `Moon!'. At this point, Linds and I would invariably explain to little Cieran that the Moon wasn't visible just now due to intervening clouds, or trees, or because it was simply the wrong time of day. Inevitably, moments later, one of us would spy a watery Moon peaking out from behind a cloudbank and we would have to concede that junior had been right all along.
Of course, Cieran loves all the usual things for a boy of his age. He is passionately devoted to cars, trains, planes and every other kind of machine that moves. He can readily name and identify just about every kind of truck and excavating machine ever invented. But we had hoped that when he moves on to other things in life, as he surely will, the artist in him will come to the fore---after all, three of his grandparents are a musician, a librarian, and a journalist. Failing that, we would be very happy if Cieran becomes a plumber, say, or a mechanic, or any other useful member of society, but please not a lawyer.
None of that matters now. Cieran is clearly destined to be a scientist. How can I be so sure. Well I will relate to you a little tale that makes it seem all but certain. First though, I must provide some context. I have a theory, developed after years of careful observation, that there are three stages in childhood. To be succinct, these can be characterized as the `No, no, no' stage, followed by the `Why, why, why' stage, and finally the `Go to hell old man' stage. Every child passes through some variant of these, the only difference being when each stage begins and how long it lasts.
Cieran discovered `No' at an early age, thanks to that most seditious of children's television programmes `The Teletubbies' (curse you Tinky-Winky and all your colourful ilk). As every parent knows, the word `No' is a dreadful weapon in the hands of a toddler who knows how to use it, second only to the terrifying utterance `Again, Daddy. Again.' Cieran has used `No' extensively for many months now, generally combining it contorted facial expressions or a hearty stomp of the foot to add emphasis.
By now, it seems, Cieran has perfected the art of `No'. But he is still only two and a quarter. Surely, it will be years yet before he embarks on stage two, the `why, why, why' stage of life.
Earlier today, as Linds sat working on her laptop, Cieran was busy with his crayons drawing loops and swirls and colourful patterns, an abstract art that only he can interpret. After a while, he stood up and turned to face Linds.
``Why is the sky blue, Mommy?''
``What?'' said Linds, clearly taken aback.
``The sky, Mommy, it's blue. Why is the sky blue?''
``Well, erm...'' Linds paused for a long moment, dredging up some long-discarded memories from old physics classes.
``Well, sweetie, it's like this.'' she said, embarking on a detailed explanation of the Planck curve, photon mean free paths, and Rayleigh scattering.
Cieran listened, attentively at first, but eventually it seemed he was not entirely satisfied with the explanation.
``The sky is blue, Mommy. The sky is blue.''
His mind began to wander and he moved on to other things, upending a tub of lego and rummaging through the pieces. The conundrum went unresolved, at least for now. But is was obvious that at the tender age of two and a quarter, Cieran had embarked on stage two of life. A new scientific mind was awakening, and Cieran was set to follow his parents into a lifetime of Nerdom.
Now, I can't help thinking it's only a matter of time before Cieran asks ``Why is the sky pink on Mars, Mommy. Why?''
``Well, erm...''
With hindsight, the signs were there all along. Cieran has been fascinated with the sun, the moon, the stars, planets, clouds, rain, and anything else to be found in the heavens. I remember several occasions recently when the three of us were out driving in the car and a little voice piped up `Moon!'. At this point, Linds and I would invariably explain to little Cieran that the Moon wasn't visible just now due to intervening clouds, or trees, or because it was simply the wrong time of day. Inevitably, moments later, one of us would spy a watery Moon peaking out from behind a cloudbank and we would have to concede that junior had been right all along.
Of course, Cieran loves all the usual things for a boy of his age. He is passionately devoted to cars, trains, planes and every other kind of machine that moves. He can readily name and identify just about every kind of truck and excavating machine ever invented. But we had hoped that when he moves on to other things in life, as he surely will, the artist in him will come to the fore---after all, three of his grandparents are a musician, a librarian, and a journalist. Failing that, we would be very happy if Cieran becomes a plumber, say, or a mechanic, or any other useful member of society, but please not a lawyer.
None of that matters now. Cieran is clearly destined to be a scientist. How can I be so sure. Well I will relate to you a little tale that makes it seem all but certain. First though, I must provide some context. I have a theory, developed after years of careful observation, that there are three stages in childhood. To be succinct, these can be characterized as the `No, no, no' stage, followed by the `Why, why, why' stage, and finally the `Go to hell old man' stage. Every child passes through some variant of these, the only difference being when each stage begins and how long it lasts.
Cieran discovered `No' at an early age, thanks to that most seditious of children's television programmes `The Teletubbies' (curse you Tinky-Winky and all your colourful ilk). As every parent knows, the word `No' is a dreadful weapon in the hands of a toddler who knows how to use it, second only to the terrifying utterance `Again, Daddy. Again.' Cieran has used `No' extensively for many months now, generally combining it contorted facial expressions or a hearty stomp of the foot to add emphasis.
By now, it seems, Cieran has perfected the art of `No'. But he is still only two and a quarter. Surely, it will be years yet before he embarks on stage two, the `why, why, why' stage of life.
Earlier today, as Linds sat working on her laptop, Cieran was busy with his crayons drawing loops and swirls and colourful patterns, an abstract art that only he can interpret. After a while, he stood up and turned to face Linds.
``Why is the sky blue, Mommy?''
``What?'' said Linds, clearly taken aback.
``The sky, Mommy, it's blue. Why is the sky blue?''
``Well, erm...'' Linds paused for a long moment, dredging up some long-discarded memories from old physics classes.
``Well, sweetie, it's like this.'' she said, embarking on a detailed explanation of the Planck curve, photon mean free paths, and Rayleigh scattering.
Cieran listened, attentively at first, but eventually it seemed he was not entirely satisfied with the explanation.
``The sky is blue, Mommy. The sky is blue.''
His mind began to wander and he moved on to other things, upending a tub of lego and rummaging through the pieces. The conundrum went unresolved, at least for now. But is was obvious that at the tender age of two and a quarter, Cieran had embarked on stage two of life. A new scientific mind was awakening, and Cieran was set to follow his parents into a lifetime of Nerdom.
Now, I can't help thinking it's only a matter of time before Cieran asks ``Why is the sky pink on Mars, Mommy. Why?''
``Well, erm...''
Saturday 26 January 2008
I Only Have a Ph.D.
My son thinks I'm an idiot. Yes, an idiot. Now, I realize that eventually this was bound to happen. It's a natural part of the evolution of any father-son relationship. At some point in his life, a boy discovers that his father is not Superman after all and bears a much closer resemblance to Homer Simpson. Still, I had hoped this revelation wouldn't happen until Cieran was well into his teenage years, or kindergarden at the very least. Alas no. My son, still a week short of his second birthday, thinks I'm a complete and utter nincompoop.
Let me relate the unhappy circumstances of my fall from demi-god to half-wit. It was bath time after a long and trying day at home (Saturday is now officially the toughest day of all - daycare is over for the week, the temperature outside is hovering just above absolute zero, and Cieran is bored, full of energy, and STILL teething!). On this particular Saturday, Cieran passed the time doing all the usual things: playing trains, climbing the cat tree, jumping off the furniture, and vanishing completely when nobody was looking, reappearing moments later with a loud crash on a different floor of the house. By seven o'clock though, he was winding down, and showing every sign of falling asleep in front of the television, despite the thrilling English football extravaganza that was playing out before his eyes.
Linds and I jumped at the possibility of an early bedtime for Cieran, and no doubt the rest of the Chambers household minutes later. Linds whisked Chambers Junior upstairs, then set about gathering pyjamas and hot-water bottles and nighttime juice bottles etc, while I was left to supervise bath time itself.
I should point out here, that while I am a thoroughly modern husband in most respects, and certainly do my fair share of household chores on quite a regular basis, bath time is normally administered by the lady of the house. Tonight though, Linds was beat. I manfully offered to take her place at the side of the tub, dispensing soap and shampoo and toothpaste to approximately appropriate locations, and doing my best to minimize the torrents of water coming over the side which are an inevitable part of bath time with Cieran.
After ten minutes scrubbing away the layers of grime and chocolate, it was time to move on to phase two of bath time: reading a story. Through many months of experimentation, at great psychological cost to all involved, we have discovered that story time is best and briefest when carried out in the tub rather than in bed itself. Accordingly, I reached over to the pile of damp, dog-eared tomes sitting by the sink, pulled one off the top, and began to read. As in many other aspects of his life, Cieran is very particular about his books at bed time. To be specific, it is absolutely essential that the same three books are read to him every evening, in a particular order, and in a particular manner. Linds had been careful to pass along these detailed instructions to Daddy, and I embarked on the task confident that my son would not be disappointed.
We began with Goldilocks and the Three Bears, a staple of bedtimes the world over. The book we were reading was a fairly condensed version of the famous ursine epic, specially designed for two-year old attention spans. There were perhaps a dozen pages, each with a jolly colour drawing, and a line or two of monosyllabic text. To add zest to the tale, I gave each of the characters a different voice, drawing on the extensive repertoire I have developed over many years alone in the shower when nobody was listening. While I think it's unlikely that Dreamworks will come knocking on my door any day soon in hope of signing my voice talents for their latest animated blockbluster, I'm sure I was doing a pretty good job all in all, especially since Cieran seemed more interested in his wind-up tugboat than in who's porridge was hotter than whose.
Midway through the book, as Goldilocks was laying waste to the poor Bears' home in much the same way that Cieran does to ours, a little voice piped up.
``Dinosaurs.'' said Cieran, putting down his tugboat for a moment.
I ignored him and continued on, steadily building towards the exciting denouement where the humble Bears confront their vicious blonde intruder.
``Dinosaurs!'' repeated Cieran, gesturing vigorously to another book in the soggy stack by the faucet.
Now this was odd, because while Ten Little Dinosaurs is a regular feature on Cieran's evening list of books, it normally occupies third billing rather than second. This, together with the fact that Goldilocks still had porridge in her mouth, should have alerted me to the fact that story time was not going well.
``But what about The Three Bears?'' I asked. ``We haven't finished yet.''
Cieran gave me a look which made it very clear that we had in fact finished with The Bears, and to get started on the Dinosaurs forthwith.
``Okay.'' I said, opening Ten Little Dinosaurs at page one.
``How's it going?'' said a voice at the bathroom doorway.
I smiled as Linds entered the bathroom and sat down beside me.
``Not bad,'' I said, still blissfully unaware of the shoddiness of my efforts.
I turned back to the book, and waited for some time until I had Cieran's attention.
``Ten little dinosaurs, bouncing on the bed.'' I began.
``Pachycephalosaurus fell and bumped his head...''
Now I don't know who wrote this book, but while I'm sure they know a lot about dinosaurs, they obviously haven't spared a thought for the poor parents who have to read it. Go ahead, you try saying pachycephalosaurus at high tempo on the first attempt without stumbling. Suffice it to say that I made a complete hash of it, went back and had another go without significant improvement, and then quickly mumbled something incoherent in order to get on to the next line of verse. But the damage was done. Linds leaned over my shoulder and calmly pronounced the cursed reptile's name with ease, then recited the rest of page one without even glancing at the book.
Cieran's eyes lit up. He immediately laid aside his tugboat, snatched the book from my grasp and handed it to Mommy.
``Dinosaurs. Yes!'' he said gleefully, for here at last was somebody who knew what she was doing.
Feeling utterly hopeless, I stood up and walked towards the door. Linds did her best to console me, complementing me on the fact that Cieran looked quite a bit cleaner than before, and repeating pachycephalosaurus slowly, one syllable at a time, so that I might be better prepared next time. Still, I can't help feeling it's too late. I might have a Ph.D. in astrophysics but my two-year old son thinks I'm a complete idiot.
Let me relate the unhappy circumstances of my fall from demi-god to half-wit. It was bath time after a long and trying day at home (Saturday is now officially the toughest day of all - daycare is over for the week, the temperature outside is hovering just above absolute zero, and Cieran is bored, full of energy, and STILL teething!). On this particular Saturday, Cieran passed the time doing all the usual things: playing trains, climbing the cat tree, jumping off the furniture, and vanishing completely when nobody was looking, reappearing moments later with a loud crash on a different floor of the house. By seven o'clock though, he was winding down, and showing every sign of falling asleep in front of the television, despite the thrilling English football extravaganza that was playing out before his eyes.
Linds and I jumped at the possibility of an early bedtime for Cieran, and no doubt the rest of the Chambers household minutes later. Linds whisked Chambers Junior upstairs, then set about gathering pyjamas and hot-water bottles and nighttime juice bottles etc, while I was left to supervise bath time itself.
I should point out here, that while I am a thoroughly modern husband in most respects, and certainly do my fair share of household chores on quite a regular basis, bath time is normally administered by the lady of the house. Tonight though, Linds was beat. I manfully offered to take her place at the side of the tub, dispensing soap and shampoo and toothpaste to approximately appropriate locations, and doing my best to minimize the torrents of water coming over the side which are an inevitable part of bath time with Cieran.
After ten minutes scrubbing away the layers of grime and chocolate, it was time to move on to phase two of bath time: reading a story. Through many months of experimentation, at great psychological cost to all involved, we have discovered that story time is best and briefest when carried out in the tub rather than in bed itself. Accordingly, I reached over to the pile of damp, dog-eared tomes sitting by the sink, pulled one off the top, and began to read. As in many other aspects of his life, Cieran is very particular about his books at bed time. To be specific, it is absolutely essential that the same three books are read to him every evening, in a particular order, and in a particular manner. Linds had been careful to pass along these detailed instructions to Daddy, and I embarked on the task confident that my son would not be disappointed.
We began with Goldilocks and the Three Bears, a staple of bedtimes the world over. The book we were reading was a fairly condensed version of the famous ursine epic, specially designed for two-year old attention spans. There were perhaps a dozen pages, each with a jolly colour drawing, and a line or two of monosyllabic text. To add zest to the tale, I gave each of the characters a different voice, drawing on the extensive repertoire I have developed over many years alone in the shower when nobody was listening. While I think it's unlikely that Dreamworks will come knocking on my door any day soon in hope of signing my voice talents for their latest animated blockbluster, I'm sure I was doing a pretty good job all in all, especially since Cieran seemed more interested in his wind-up tugboat than in who's porridge was hotter than whose.
Midway through the book, as Goldilocks was laying waste to the poor Bears' home in much the same way that Cieran does to ours, a little voice piped up.
``Dinosaurs.'' said Cieran, putting down his tugboat for a moment.
I ignored him and continued on, steadily building towards the exciting denouement where the humble Bears confront their vicious blonde intruder.
``Dinosaurs!'' repeated Cieran, gesturing vigorously to another book in the soggy stack by the faucet.
Now this was odd, because while Ten Little Dinosaurs is a regular feature on Cieran's evening list of books, it normally occupies third billing rather than second. This, together with the fact that Goldilocks still had porridge in her mouth, should have alerted me to the fact that story time was not going well.
``But what about The Three Bears?'' I asked. ``We haven't finished yet.''
Cieran gave me a look which made it very clear that we had in fact finished with The Bears, and to get started on the Dinosaurs forthwith.
``Okay.'' I said, opening Ten Little Dinosaurs at page one.
``How's it going?'' said a voice at the bathroom doorway.
I smiled as Linds entered the bathroom and sat down beside me.
``Not bad,'' I said, still blissfully unaware of the shoddiness of my efforts.
I turned back to the book, and waited for some time until I had Cieran's attention.
``Ten little dinosaurs, bouncing on the bed.'' I began.
``Pachycephalosaurus fell and bumped his head...''
Now I don't know who wrote this book, but while I'm sure they know a lot about dinosaurs, they obviously haven't spared a thought for the poor parents who have to read it. Go ahead, you try saying pachycephalosaurus at high tempo on the first attempt without stumbling. Suffice it to say that I made a complete hash of it, went back and had another go without significant improvement, and then quickly mumbled something incoherent in order to get on to the next line of verse. But the damage was done. Linds leaned over my shoulder and calmly pronounced the cursed reptile's name with ease, then recited the rest of page one without even glancing at the book.
Cieran's eyes lit up. He immediately laid aside his tugboat, snatched the book from my grasp and handed it to Mommy.
``Dinosaurs. Yes!'' he said gleefully, for here at last was somebody who knew what she was doing.
Feeling utterly hopeless, I stood up and walked towards the door. Linds did her best to console me, complementing me on the fact that Cieran looked quite a bit cleaner than before, and repeating pachycephalosaurus slowly, one syllable at a time, so that I might be better prepared next time. Still, I can't help feeling it's too late. I might have a Ph.D. in astrophysics but my two-year old son thinks I'm a complete idiot.
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