Kill them with the 'no!'

This is second in a series of Father Files written by Mel Cooke.

Once upon a time, many months ago, I taught Ayele-Ali his current favourite word. No.

Well, maybe it is not quite his favourite, as he loves running behind his bigger sister chortling 'Mani! Mani!' But he says the 'no!' with a particular volume and inflection that make it very special. I understand, from Aunty M (who is a bit peeved that at 15 months old he is yet to call her name, heh heh) that sometimes the 'no!' comes with the stamp of a size nothing flat foot.

Can't get more emphatic than that, can we?

I must confess, though, that when I passed on the word to him, it was not intended to be the basis of Yele's vocabulary. It came at a special moment in the journey of father and son - the first time I was taking care of him alone.

This was when he was just past three months old, W was back at work, his sisters were at school and Aunty M was coming in from 'country'. I did the drop-off rounds and headed back into ye ol' Blue Mountains to home with him. I was armed with the baby bag (blue, naturally) and observation of his non-breastfeeding care, including a couple diaper changes.

Of course, all this was not new to me, but there was a little gap, I must confess. After all, big sister and little big sister were 11 years old and 10 years old, respectively. It had been a long time since I did the Daddy-alone-with-the-babies bit.

But now, all on my lonesome one again, I did my bit. I got him out of the car seat, loaded up with all the required stuff (isn't it amazing how much luggo luggo it takes to take care of one pickney under 15 pounds in body weight, including a full diaper?), went up the steps, displayed the dexterity and balance of a conductor coming down the passageway of a speeding bus collecting fares and got the door open.

All I had to do was survive five hours until Aunty M rallied to my rescue. At first, I was OK. Make bottle - a breeze. Feed kid - enough of a breeze. Change diaper - a cinch (just use nuff wet wipe and hope he does not spray from either end during the process).

Put baby to sleep - not a breeze. Hell, a storm, a hurricane of bawling.

I tried different beds, to no avail. Di bwoy just wouldn't sleep. Not sleeping was not the problem, though; it was the bawling. I swear if car alarms were that loud, no one would even test a vehicle with one. I fed him again, he had some, refused the rest and started bawling again. Louder. I cajoled with many a 'Yele, Yele'. I paced the floor until his head rested on my left shoulder - but as I put him down, it was siren time again.

This was at about noon and I knew I could not survive the next two hours. I simply could not take any more, not after about a decade of not facing these issues. I was baby-bawling rusty and this crash course was just not working.

So I resorted to the 'no!' treatment. I lay down with him on my chest and every time he started to holler, I said (very firmly) 'no!'. It took him a couple tries to get it, but it was me or him. We simply were not going to continue on the current path and I was placing all bets on Mel.

Every time that face started crinkling into a crying fit, I said no. He sobbed, he mewled, he wept, he gave me the big-eye-and-pleading treatment - throughout it all, I was not moved. Eventually, he got the message and went to sleep.

I believe other persons in the household thought I was a bit (OK, more than a bit) harsh, but as Yele grew bigger and started walking and 'exploring' (as in destroying) all and sundry, I started to hear them tell him no. It worked, but not as much as mine.

Now, though, it is Yele who is the no master. Loudly. He even bawls out no about things he is about to do, I think. And all I can do is reflect on that day when he was three months old and think that he might just have been thinking at the time:

"Forgive them, Father. They know not what they have done."