Slice
of Life
Calvin
and the Hobbes's
Richa
Jha
"I
think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If
we're in each others dreams, we can play together all night!"
(Hobbes, to Calvin)
As a
newly born infant, our son's eyes and forehead bore an uncanny
resemblance to Calvin's. Much as we fancied our infant to
grow up into another Calvin (yes, parents have unusually
absurd dreams and expectations from their children), it
was always the picture of his harried mother that made me
freeze my thoughts even before they could warm up. I certainly
didn't wish to be her. (Remember Calvin's "Aww mom,
you act like I'm not even wearing a bungie cord!"?)
Childlike
precocity is one thing; Calvinesque precocity quite another.
Calvin, the walking embodiment of the human Id, the boy
who likes to connect the dots his own way, who believes
that bugs and girls have a dim perception that nature has
played a cruel trick on them, but lack the intelligence
to comprehend the magnitude of it (!), can be any straight
looking, well meaning parent's most nightmarish nemesis.
Standing at his side is Hobbes, his stuffed tiger, who embodies
the superego, trying his best to keep Calvin in check, with
only occasional success. From the way my son expresses his
opinion on every matter under the sun these days, I am afraid,
my fears are coming true.
My son
has now reached an age where external forces have started
talking to him. Alas! There is more than one Hobbes involved
here, and each, more opinionated than the other. As a parent,
I can manage one of them communicating with him at one time.
There is utter anarchy when he has a field day with all
of them together. That's the time when even walls grow eyes
and refuse to let him practise art on them, the otherwise
friendly (small mercies) floor growls back at him and says
he can't stand on it, and the ceilings start spewing the
most bitter medicine he's ever been administered (with the
memory of an elephant's, he remembers the names and colours
of the most obnoxious ones). That's a lot of trouble for
him and his mother to handle at the same time!
Back
to the trusted coterie of Hobbes's in his life. There is
a dolphin that was introduced to him with the specific purpose
of helping him get over this habit of thumb-sucking. As
any experienced parent will tell you that since their urge
to suck their thumbs is far greater than even their perennial
urge to annoy you, meek creatures like dolphins are ill-suited
to the cause at hand. The modus operandi was straight: get
him used to this soft toy's presence in the first few days,
and then show him the hurt on this friend's face each time
he popped his thumb in.
As the
psychologists will tell you (and I'm certain Dr. Spock has
a chapter on it), emotional blackmail doesn't work. Our
son got conned into it on one or two occasions, but soon
realised he was having to pay too heavy a price for keeping
his friend happy. Each time the thumb fought its way in,
the sense of betrayal in the dolphin's eyes and the volley
of blah-blahs thereafter exhorting him to stop sucking was
too intense for my son to bear. His friend was getting to
be too much of a prude and killjoy. He had to find a way
out.
Few
months ago, he announced to me that this dolphin was getting
tired playing with him in bed, so every once in a while,
it wanted to go back inside the cupboard and sleep. And
he, like all good friends, was just letting it do what it
wanted to do. So now, while his friend rests in, our guilt-free
son sucks furiously on his thumb, unhindered, undisturbed,
and unopposed. Both are elated to see each other at the
end of their respective pacifying activities!
Then
there is his other Hobbesian friend and co-conspirator:
the elephant that lives to push him when he's sipping juice,
and throw his food off the high-chair at mealtimes. The
little man has admonished it several times before me, even
explained to him how wrong it is to be wasting food like
this, but his friend just doesn't listen. Since this particularly
offensive behaviour of the elephant's happens at meal times,
I suggested that it be left behind in the toy box while
we ate in the other room. My son tried it out, but was later
pained to find it howling inside the toy box. "Mamma,
it has promised it will not throw food from now on, so can
he sit with me in my high chair? He said he felt lonely
inside. Mamma, please, p-l-e-a-s-e…". That's
a three-year-old's power of persuasion and skilful negotiation!
Mr.
Jumbo is back accompanying us at the dining table, but behaves
rather well. Only, it has now started pushing my son off
chairs, beds, cushions and so on at all other times. I don't
intervene now. As long as it is between two friends, and
none of my curios break, it is all right.
And
then there is his most trusted companion, the chhotu
baby (tiny baby), a doll that crawls, who is always wailing
to be fed, cuddled, and loved. My son takes care of it for
the most part of the day, preparing food for it, boiling
'white milk' (infants have white milk as opposed to grown-ups
like him who have Bournvita), bathing it and rocking it.
Thankfully, my list of responsibilities is small: I just
have to feed it (my son is generous enough to let it use
his high chair for this purpose). My son lays the table
before calling me, then shows me the various items he has
prepared for the baby, and then asks me to start feeding
it. This chhotu baby has a ravenous appetite; on
an average, it has such meals about five times a day.
There
are several more: his cars that decide to throw up their
wheels the moment they reach home from the shop, his scooter
that tells him it is going to skid, but goes around and
does a summersault instead, his toothbrush that suddenly
decides to go down the wash-basin drain, or the dimly lit
room that pushes him outside of itself because it wants
to be left undisturbed to sleep! Each object has a voice
of its own, and doesn't fail to talk to a child's overactive
imagination! A child's power to conjure is beyond the realm
of any adult.
Leaving
you with one of (the original) Calvin's maxims:
"The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas,
obscure pure reasoning, and inhibit clarity. With a little
practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable
fog!"
The
day my son comes up with something like this, I'll stop
writing!
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(R) thedailystar.net 2004
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