Devilboy woke up at 5am this morning. This in itself is, unfortunately, not an unusual occurrence.
Devilboy’s mummy chugged back the best part of a bottle of red wine last night. These days this is, also unfortunately, a very unusual occurrence.
Ergo, Devilboy’s mummy was in no fit state to;
a) attempt to soothe him back to sleep, or
b) get up and help him plot the downfall of whichever of his Little People have earned his ire today.
Desperate for another hour or two of sleep – and bad mother hat firmly in place – Devilboy was promptly tossed into the big bed between his daddy and I where we all snuggled happily back to sleep.
For a while.
At around 7am I was woken by a raspy and quite sinister voice chanting, “tiiiickkkllle”. I felt weighted down and realised that a freakish small voiced demon was slowly attempting to suffocate me. I momentarily feared for my life but as consciousness slowly returned to my wine saturated brain, I realised that my demonic attacker wasn’t a hound from hell after all and was, in fact, just a fluey Devilboy.
Despite my agonised wailing and gnashing of teeth, Devilboy pried open my eyes, elated that his mummy had decided to join his pre-dawn party. Beaming, he shouted “Tickle mammy” at the top of his enviable lungs, effectively ensuring sleep would not be revisited by said mummy, before vigorously attacking my throat with his scratchy little fingers and giggling himself silly.
My hangover was almost entirely obliterated in that joyous instant.
Tickle is another new word for Devilboy. Smiling at his cleverness, I was rewarded with a deluge of proud ‘tickle, tickle, tickles’ for the next five minutes. Wave after wave of love (and residual alcohol induced nausea) washed over me for my clever little man.
“What a distressing contrast there is between the radiant intelligence of the child and the feeble mentality of the average adult.” So said Sigmund Freud, someone I’d mostly thought of as a rather twattish mummy’s boy but who, it would seem, occasionally belted out some wise words.
It is such a true statement. Devliboy’s capacity for learning really is a thing of shiny, sparkling wonder. At 15 months of age, it appears his vocabulary is already superior to that of many 30 year old Rugby League players.
Over the last week some kind of brain explosion has occurred and we listen stunned as Devilboy spurts out new words, signs and sounds every time he opens his mouth, which is often… so very, very often. He is like a very cute, very clever, blue-eyed sponge sucking up everything around him and then spitting it out in a flurry of excitable non-stop noise.
It does mean though, now that the flood gates of language have opened, that it’s officially time for us to stop swearing. This is rather unfortunate and makes me a little sad, as I do love a good swear and have a tremendous gift for it.
Devilboy’s non verbal skills also continue to develop at warp speed. Engineer. Artist. Historian. Dancer. Musician. Athlete. Raconteur. My clever little man is a veritable renaissance boy.
His creative engineering skills are easily observed as he constructs beautiful towers from exotic combinations of wooden blocks, bits of cardboard puzzle and a plastic walrus. As an artist he tries to recreate Blue Poles in many mediums – though his specialty appears to be breakfast cereal. He cleverly combines his skils as a historian with his artistic talents, which extend to interior decorating, and uses these to turn a perfectly tidy room into a disaster zone in seconds flat.
Musically, I am unable to convince him that the Wiggles are where it’s at for hip and happening 15 month olds, but delight at his dancing as he bops to Bob Marley, head bangs at Hendrix and pogos with Placebo, his artists of choice at the moment. He plays along rhythmically on his very own Devilboy designed drum kit, which generally consists of a plastic tambourine, an upside block box and the cat.
The cat is also key in the development of his athleticism as he ‘pats’ him in a style best utilised by professional boxers.
At the sudden sound of inhuman screeching I look up from writing this missive on his great genius and observe my delightful devil wildly throwing his lunch across the room and demonstrating all the intellectual capacities of a socially inept gibbon – thus negating this entire entry.
As he grows bored of throwing his sandwich and instead attempts to grind it in to the cats face, I feel it’s time to break from boasting about his ‘alleged’ intellect, save the cat, and attend to my little primate before he starts flinging his own poo…