After years of observation, I have come to the conclusion that babies are born all-knowing and all-powerful. These abilities seem to fade gradually over time until, somewhere between Little League and the Senior Prom, they disappear completely.
This explains why teenagers are convinced that they know everything, why they feel that the world owes it to them to do their bidding, and why they behave as if they were indestructible and immortal.
Unfortunately, most parents have forgotten that children possess these qualities. Being in the thrall of adult amnesia, they exhibit behaviors which clearly demonstrate this state of mind.
For example, one of the most profoundly self-defeating behaviors exhibited by all parents is the drive to teach their children to TALK. As if it weren't bad enough that infants are already all-powerful, we proceed to imbue them with the tools to tell us about it!
Take me, for instance. When my first daughter was born, during her first several months of life, I spent the greater part of my waking hours (about 23 per day in the average infancy) trying to teach my daughter to talk.
In my amnesiac semi-delirium, I was arrogant enough to think that I could actually teach my kid something. I should have known better. After all, I was a psychology major with a minor in anthropology. The warning signs were right there in my textbooks.
In many primitive societies, a person has two names - the name that is used for everyday communication (as in "Yo, Mojo! Mongo home?") and the name that is your Secret Power Name.
Traditionally, one's Secret Name is shared only with the village shaman (or with California channellers who are writing a book about your primitive ways and have bribed you with a goodly amount of shiny beads and Levi's 501s.) There is a good reason for this: anyone who knows your Secret Name can make you do their bidding.
In American society, however, we have forgotten about the power of the Secret Name. Of course, since the discovery of credit cards, ziploc bags and mass production, adults in western society have generic Secret Names like "Mommy" (very powerful) and "Daddy" (compelling, but not quite as powerful), "Honey" (powerful in certain relationships and the complex "I-Need-To-See-Your-Drivers-License" (powerful and frightening). Although generic, these are almost as good as Secret Brand Names.
So, there I was, teaching my already omnipotent infant MY SECRET NAME! "Say 'Mommy'!" I would cajole. "Where's Mommy? Mom-my. Come'on, say 'Mommy.'"
By the time she was three I was already regretting my indiscretion. But knowledge is like lingerie bought on sale - you can't take it back. My toddler had not only learned my Secret Name (just like I taught her), but she had discovered the highest and most powerful form of it - what I call the "Three-Note Mom."
The Three Note Mom is used by the sophisticated child when she is happy, unhappy, frustrated, satisfied, hungry, full, angry, friendly, and just about every other state except sleeping (and sometimes Delaware). Of course, don't count on the sleeping part - I used to lay awake at night, terrified, dreading the Call of the Child.
The Three Note Mom (TNM) requires practice on the part of the child and patience on the part of the parent. (I was a patient at St. Luke's). It is easy to recognize. The child will precede the TNM with a sharp, deep inhale and, keening like a deflating balloon, let loose with, "But Ma-Ah-Ahm!" voice raising in pitch on the first and last syllables.
This conjuration evokes a variety of responses from the parent. It used to make me want to put a bandanna on the end of a long stick and run away from home.
Fortunately, my children are grown now, their power over me lessened. My two daughters are now clueless young adults like I once was. I have, in moments of recklessness, considered having another child. Of course, this is due to another form of adult amnesia
related to biological clocks and other timepieces. If I should have another baby, I pray I will have the sense enough to NOT teach him to say "Mommy."
In fact, I may not even tell him I'm his mother until he is 21 years old and living at college. Let him think I'm the housekeeper. Let him learn to say, "But Daa-aa-aad!" instead.
