Autobiography of a One-Year-Old

Month XIII In which, if you believe the books, I should be able to get into a standing position, clap hands and indicate wants in ways other than crying. Yeah, right. PARENTS. A FEW THOUGHTS ON THE THORNY SUBJECT OF Essentially parents are odd fish. Their ways are mysterious and many of their ideas are just plain bizarre. I'm not sure what the point of them is, but, like junk mail or a sniffle in winter, they are exceedingly hard to avoid; parents come with the territory. Standard issue is two, though one is fairly common, and three or four not unknown. I myself have in my employ two parents of the usual variety. If you, like me, have a duo of parents, they normally fall into two distinct categories. The first category is Smooth, the second is Hairy. Smooths tend to be full-time staff, whereas Hairies are, at best, part-timers. Some people I've met claim their Hairies do equal if not more hours than their Smooths, but frankly I find that a little hard to believe. Smooths also tend to handle more of the refueling functions and the nether-region work. Now, because I spend more of my time with Smooth, the appearance of Hairy, when it occurs, is a situation that can be exploited in many ways. Prime among these is the ruse of spending most of the day in dispute with Smooth, then being all smiles and cuddles when Hairy turns up. It's a divide-and-rule ploy that never fails to produce results. I know it sounds a little devious, but it's one of the few chances you have of outmaneuvering parents who so often hold the upper hand. And that is the nub of the parent conundrum. You see, although the parents are undoubtedly working for me, by some ludicrous twist of fate, they have been put in charge. It is a position they are so patently ill equipped to handle that it leaves you with the disquieting feeling that you are the victim of some monstrous mistake. I mean, they know so little about me and the world I inhabit that it's hardly surprising so many of the decisions they make about me are completely wrong. For instance, no one likes cereal. Absolutely no one. That's why, given a choice, at breakfast people eat cornflakes or toast or a croissant or pancakes or bacon and eggs. So how come I'm force-fed cereal every morning? Or what about the things they put in my crib? Some nights I get in and it's like trying to find a seat in an overcrowded train. Okay, I admit that by now I know some of the fellows who share my crib, but honestly I really know most of them only slightly. For heaven's sake, I'm trying to sleep in here, don't I deserve a little space of my own? The bitter truth is that parents are in charge. So, one way or another, you have to discover your own way of getting along with them. The spectrum of possible strategies you can employ ranges from total deference, through collaboration, to outright war. My advice is, don't put all your toys in one toy box. Vary your approach. It'll keep you interested and them on their toes. Just because they're in charge doesn't mean you can't be in control. WHAT'S IN A NAME? They say the Eskimos have hundreds of words for types of snow. Pathetic. I've loads more than that for types of poop. When the stuff is such a big part in your life, you tend to dwell on the subject. And all too often you don't just dwell on the subject, you frequently dwell in it as well. There is something deeply deflating about having to sit in your own poop. Let's just say it is not the biggest boost to one's self-esteem. So of course I scream my head off. Wouldn't you? Back to the naming of the names. I won't detain you with the full list but just pass on some of my own particular favoCandappa, Rohan is the author of 'Autobiography of a One-Year-Old' with ISBN 9780553381306 and ISBN 055338130X.