The Corben

[deathboy]

He likes bubbles. Each perfect sphere is a universe he will crush with his powerful mandibles.

I have the tiny beast sleeping over this evening.

When you're up late, chugging redbull and hacking on a project that's late, there are few things better in the world than hearing your little one snuffling in his sleep in the back of your techno-cave.

If you wonder why parents are so fucking annoying in their constant bleating about how awesome being a parent is, it's because a) it makes you feel better than anything in the universe and b) evolution clearly favours encouragement of breeding. To put it the other way, those who, due to their genetic predisposition, actively discourage further breeding neither get to pass on their traits, nor do those who are easily swayed by such discouragement. The ones who prosper are both likely to proselytise and/or prone to be subject to encouragement.

Don't fucking blame me, blame Darwin.

I know I've gone on about the BabyDrugs before, the way a million years of neurochemistry rewards you for fulfilling the genetic imperative, but having Corben over and snoring peacefully in the back of the room fills me with a wonderful and infectious kind of happy.

It's like that wonderful lazy glow you get from a quarter of a really good pill.

Like when you're set to get absolutely loaded and the club kicks you out and you're forced to go home before you get so drunk that the badness kicks in and you meander home with a stupid smile on your face, seeing the shiny lights of the city through vazzed up eyes.

He wakes me up by slapping me in the face. Lovingly.

He starts off gentle, then, when he realises I'm actually awake, gives me a proper slap.

This pretty much characterises our relationship.

The way I treat him is that anything he does is OK, unless it might put him in proper danger.

This isn't without qualification: he must NOT leave the building we're in, or walk onto a road or path without me. Being hit by a car doesn't give you a chance to learn a lesson.

He has a funny scale of reaction to me and my tone of voice.

If he's interested in something, he largely ignores anything I say, or that anyone says.

I love that :) That's fine :)

I have formed the three laws of Corbonics, as follows:

1) Corben must protect his own existence, and must obey daddy when he sounds serious.

2) Corben may not injure another human being, unless it's funny, entertaining or they're a bully, unless this conflicts with the first law and, look, daddy is REALLY serious about this, stop it, his mom is going to complain.

3) Corben must obey any orders given to him by adults, except where such orders would conflict with the first or second laws, or it wasn't from daddy, or ignoring them would be hilarious, or there's something shiny over there, or daddy is a poopoo, or NYAR NYAR NYAR SLAP SLAP HAHAHAHAH DADDEEEE!

On a fundamental level, I don't think he should pay attention to my whims. If I want him to be interested in something, it should be because I've made it interesting, not because I've punished him into being alert when I say "jump".

If I put meaning into my voice, he listens, but tends not to obey. Again, I'm fine with this. He clearly acknowledges that I've said it, but generally, he doesn't obey. He's a kid. He wants to pull that thing off that plant. Or cat. The fact that we have to get home for 1:30 is not his priority, nor should it be.

If I either stamp my foot and drop my voice into total seriousness, or bark at him because of danger, he reacts immediately, freezes, looks for me, does what I asked.

That's perfect.

He's a perfectly disobedient, wilful, bright, explorative, confident little crazy bastard.

When he socialises with other kids, they push and poke and shove at him, and he doesn't notice or give half a fuck. His dad pushes and pokes and teases and bothers and tickles and coerces him all day, and he's learnt to interpret some of it as affection and the rest as an interruption to be politely ignored.

The look on the face of the bigger kids when they bash him and he laughs, shrugs and ignores them is sublime.

He barrels around the place and falls over. The other parents think I'm SCUM.

He belts round a corner, spins over onto the floor and whaps his head into the tiles.

The leader of the playgroup said to me "oh, oh, he just fell over" "yep, I know" "but he's rubbing at his head, I think he banged his head, look" "yep. he's fine." "yeah, but he's rubbing his head" "that's because his head hurts, he just bumped it" "but" "trust me, if he was badly hurt, you'd know."

Corben gets up (rubbing his head), grins, belts off after the bigger kids again, grinning.

I mean, seriously, he's a kid, he just fell over and hit his head. He's rubbing his head because it hurts. He's not bleeding, he's not wailing with pain and terror, because all that's wrong is that he's just bruised his head. This is perfectly normal for a day of being a kid.

He's not scared or hurt or anxious, because there's no need to be. He's fine. Kids are made of rubber. He knows that when he's really in trouble, mommy or daddy are there and getting hurt is NOT bad.

Getting bruised is something that happens. He gets up and grins and does it again and again because that's FINE.

This, here, now, being his dad, is the point where you get to form someone's reactions.

You can act on your own fears and anxieties, so when they fall, you swoop on them, fraught and anguished. At this point, kids trust the look on daddy's face more than their own pain receptors. If you say "dude, you're fine. come here, give daddy a cuddle. off you go!" then off they jolly well go, happy and feisty and full of excitement. If your pupils dilate and your eyebrows shoot up and your muscles tense and you scoop them up to save them from the horror of a scuffed knee, swamping them with "dear dear, babba, ohhhhhh, poor babba!" they look at their god, and their god looks scared, so fuck me, they're terrified! Something awful must have happened!

You've seen kids fall over, then look around to see if any adults are looking, THEN start sobbing?

Right.

The other parents think I'm a monster. They spend half their day chasing after their kids, who are playing in playgrounds with all the rough edges taken off, with soft landings for every fall, springs and cushions and slides and astroturf, horrified when their kid falls over their own feet and winds up in a heap on the padded floor.

My nipper is safe and sound, snoring in bed next to me, undemanding and content. His dad's near and tomorrow he can scare the shit out of me by swinging like a monkey on steel bars higher than I wish he'd climb on.

When he wakes up and gets bored that I'm not awake, too, or is hungry, he'll pat my face until I'm awake, then he'll start slapping me in the eyes with his tiny, evil little fists.

And I will wake up smiling and get the little bastard some breakfast, and we shall have a fucking marvelous time of it.

I go to sleep now, like a kid at christmas, waiting to wake up to him cackling like a psychopath, climbing on my head and kicking me in the nose with his tiny feet, demanding milk and Wheetos and choo-choo trains on the teevee, because there's absolutely no better way to wake up in the whole world, and I get to have this now, and a million more times before he gets too big :)

Comments

[umbriel.livejournal.com]

Over here from Syn, this is a fantastic little post, and yet another tiny crowbar in the part of my brain that contains children.

My mother's approach was to look me over very carefully when I staggered into the house from the back yard, then tell me that no, I wasn't muddy enough, that I'd just have to go back out again. Admittedly I now get bored very easily and feel lazy if I'm not doing -something- interesting, but I don't think either of those traits are actually bad ones.