Who Needs Words?

I saw Brady change from a baby into a little boy. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it. It happened when he discovered his shadow. One moment, he was blissfully unaware of the world. The next, he was watching the boy on the wall imitate his every move. It made me feel old. I wanted to discover something that wonderful, something that fascinating and new. I wanted to be astounded and enthralled. Then I realized that my opportunity to feel those things was right in front of me, offering his shadow a toy to play with.

Brady’s growth has always amazed me but never so much as in the past two months. He was just simply going through predictable stages of development. Now he’s experiencing milestones of perception. And it’s more than just noticing the stars in the sky, or recognizing colors. He’s doing calculus, or at least its equivalent. He’s making connections. He’s pulling together random impressions and images scattered in his brain. He’s forming concepts. He’s thinking.

But thinking brings understanding and a realization of limitations. Before Christmas, Brady started hitting himself on the head and making angry faces. He was frustrated by his failure to communicate verbally. He never hears baby talk so his comprehension of complex sentences far surpasses his ability to participate in the discussions. He’s had a solid grasp of the “if…then” concept for some time but when confronted by “if you eat some broccoli, then you can have dessert,” he could voice his displeasure only by whining. So, his mom started teaching him sign language. The result was spectacular. Last night at dinner, I told him, “If you eat some chicken, then you can have some M&Ms”. Instead of whining, he bargained. He signed that he would eat more cheese and a French fry in exchange for the M&Ms. We had a deal. If he’s negotiating like this at 20 months, he’ll be a heck of a lawyer when he’s five.

Sign language is an excellent form of communication. It even works for exchanging information that should be classified. Brady has learned signs that are not part of the American Sign Language repertoire, signs that go with being a boy. His Mom taught him to cover his mouth after he belches. Her friend taught him to wave his hand in front of his nose after he passes gas. Both signs are executed with a grandiose air and are accompanied by a devilish grin. He’s even invented a sign – a thumb hooked backwards - for “there’s something in my diaper that you might like to see.”

He picks up new signs very quickly but his vocal range plugs along at a normal rate. He learned words for the things he needed first, “Mama” and “bottle” were favorites. Now that he’s thinking, he’s adding words that have meaning. “Stop” and “Go” are fun. There’s not much a toddler likes more than control. Last week, I spent thirty minutes pushing a grocery cart from the store’s entrance to the milk aisle because I was following his instructions. “No” is another good one. Repeating the word helps achieve the desired goal, as in “No, no, no, no, no”. “Up” and “Down” get him places that he can’t go on his own.

But he still prefers to use a more primitive form of communication, sound effects. When I put him to bed at night, we discuss our day’s activities. I narrate while he improvises. A typical day involves playing with the cat (meow) before driving to the store (vroom vroom) with Ripley in the back seat (woof woof). Sometimes we pass a police car or fire engine (imitates a siren). Then we eat dinner (chomping noises) and watch Finding Nemo (fish face with fish-breathing-air noises).

I know that all those squeaks and grunts and giggles are paving the way for more words and whole sentences. Soon enough, we won’t be able to shut him up. I can’t wait to hear what he’s thinking, and how he’s thinking. I can’t wait to discover the world again through his eyes.

In the meantime, I’ll settle for the visual communication. It’s a simple form that’s rarely misunderstood. When his Mom tells him she loves him, he answers by signing, “I love you” and then spreading his arms all the way out to the sides for “this much”.

So who needs words?

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Brady Meigs Alden  Melissa Alden

Smitten

I took a guy with me when I met my friend Cheryl for dinner. The next day, she announced that it’s obvious I’m smitten. 

She’s right. In my wildest dreams, I would not have wanted someone like Brady in my life. He’s not my type. He’s short. He’s loud. He has the attention span of a gnat. He’s uneducated, naïve, and inconsiderate. His trendy clothes are ill fitting. But he is cute, and charming enough for me to seek out his company again and again. 

Okay, this is what happened: Last year, my roommate had a baby. I’d never lived in the same house as a baby so I was nervous. When Brady came home from the hospital, he was a slug with the personality of a wet tissue and the daily routine of a shark. He was an eating and excreting machine. And he made noise that could shatter glass. Luckily, after years of working in kennels, I was immune to loud, continuous noises. I thought I was immune to babies, too. All of my friends adore babies. They love the way babies smell. They say that babies are fun. Yeah, fun as a headache. I prefer the quiet life. I could have been named the patron saint of a baby free lifestyle, but I lost to a single man in his late 30’s . 

Still, there was something about him that began to grow on me. When he and his Mom moved out, I became his nanny. It wasn’t pretty. I was intimidated by this little person and frustrated by my lack of knowledge. My expertise was with dogs. I often quipped that I’d be better off with a puppy, no, a whole litter of puppies, than with one baby. We struggled through each day without me accidentally killing him. 

I used to stand my dolls on their heads to dress them. This wasn’t much different. There were incidents of leaky diapers that I hadn’t installed properly, exploding bottles of formula, shampoo in his eyes, and pureed squash in his nose. The first time we went out in public, I didn’t know to bring a diaper bag, or not to feed him chocolate cake. 

Almost overnight, Brady evolved from a slug to a rock-eater, the rarely named stage between a rug-rat and a drape-climber that involves crawling around in search of tiny things to eat off the floor. Things not visible to the adult eye. Things like pieces of gravel, single strands of dog hair, and grains of salt. I spent a lot of time following him around the house and systematically removing foreign objects from between his clenched jaws. 

He began wreaking havoc on my house, laughing out loud the whole time. And he did it on all fours. He drooled, raided the dog dish, played with old dog toys, chewed my shoes, and smeared my sliding glass door with nose prints. That’s when it hit me. There’s not much difference between an eight-month-old baby and a dog! Hey, maybe I can do this! 

The more he acted like a dog, the more enamored I became. Luckily, he doesn’t mind being treated like a dog. He enjoys chasing balls and shredding magazines. I enjoy having an opportunity to hone my dog training skills. In no time, I convinced him that the diaper pail was not a toy box. I taught him not to climb onto the open dishwasher door to lick the dishes. And I help him practice the tricks he’s learned, like raising his arms when we say “touchdown!”, throwing kisses, clapping his hands, and waving bye-bye. I was unsuccessful at deterring his fascination with what’s “down there” but, after all, he is a boy. 

Now we’ve become a team. He calls me “eh” and I give him Native American names like “Little Ray of Sunshine”, “Dances with Rattle” and “Screams at Bedtime”. He doesn’t tell anyone when I make mistakes and I let him be a boy. I carry him in a backpack so he doesn’t have to ride in those sissy grocery cart seats and I give him a straw instead of a bottle or a sippy cup when we’re in public. We do laundry together. He stands beside me at the dryer, pulling out the wet clothes as I put them in. We peruse the Toys R Us catalog together. Instead of stressing about getting him to sleep, I put him down for naps and watch as he flops around like he’s trying out for the role of a letter on Sesame Street. 

I’ve also started getting into the baby culture. My guest room is a nursery. The deck is a playpen. I actually own a high chair. I have a “plug” (pacifier) hanging from my rear view mirror. I don’t mind that my silver demitasse spoons double as drumsticks. And I change his diapers quickly and efficiently, even when he interferes by playing with his, er, bits and pieces. I even embroidered a t-shirt for him with the words, “Party. My Crib. 3am. BYOB”. 

So, am I smitten? I’ve stopped denying that he’s mine when people compliment him, and his smile lights up my world.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Brady Meigs Alden   Melissa Alden

Welcoming Bubba

Last spring, my brother let me borrow his cordless drill. There’s a saying about giving a child a hammer and the whole world becomes a nail. If you give a woman a cordless drill, the whole world becomes an interior decorating project. I was drunk on drilling. I put up shelves, fixed wobbly drawers, and made Christmas ornaments out of European coins. I drilled and drilled and drilled.

My coup d’etat, right before I joined Drillers Anonymous, involved desecrating my Scrabble game. I fastened a game piece tile holder to the walls outside each of the bedrooms. Now I can spell out the name of each room’s occupant with Scrabble tiles. It’s the adult version of those magnetic letters that kids stick to the refrigerator. When my brother saw me frantically digging through the tiles for the ever elusive “J”, he confiscated the drill.

I was thrilled with my ingenuity but I knew I’d have few opportunities to play with my new art. The names on the doors weren’t likely to change. From the moment my dogs met her dog, my roommate Mel was a permanent fixture – even after she announced that she was pregnant with a boy.

I was almost as excited as she. I grilled her about baby names so I could change the Scrabble tiles. She systematically rejected every male and transgender name known to mankind. In desperation, I announced that I would call the child Bubba until she settled on a name. I hurried to change the tiles on her door to read “Mel & Bubba”. We were expecting a baby.

I had no idea how my life would change. My training in emergency childbirth – and as a woman – never prepared me for the impact of a pregnancy in my home. Now I understand the stories my male colleagues shared about their wives. Now I know what it’s like to live with a pregnant woman.

I’ve always subscribed to the sentiment that if I wanted to hear the pitter patter of little feet, I’d put shoes on my cat. Now I’m engrossed in daily viewings of “Baby Story” and “Maternity Ward” on television. I stumble over boxes of diminutive clothing that friends have donated to the cause. I wake up in the middle of the night seeing visions of nursery themes on the wall. I buy baby name books from China and Bolivia, and quiz total strangers about possible names. I’m on a never-ending hunt for the perfect maternity gift. I can’t pass a store without checking its freezer for Ben and Jerry’s “Dilbert” ice cream. I hide the eggs in the refrigerator and avoid words like “poached”, “scrambled” and “omelet”. I tiptoe around the mood swings that leave her sobbing hysterically about the suffering of children in World War II. I try to be empathic when she complains that she can’t see her feet. I laugh when she stubs her belly on the edge of the counter or leaves the house with an umbrella that doesn’t quite cover everything. I try to change the channel whenever the commercials start so she won’t be tempted to say, “I want McDonald’s”, “I want Oreos” or “I want Welsh’s grape jelly.” When she asks if an outfit makes her look fat, I’m careful to say that she looks pregnant, not fat. Sometimes when she’s grumpy, I add, “You know, from behind, you don’t even look pregnant!”

We act like a married couple. We sit and talk about Bubba’s future. We debate circumcision. We ponder the impact of allowing him to play with dolls. We deliberate when to introduce him to a second language, and then a third. We plan how she’ll raise a strong man who won’t run away from his responsibilities. We watch him imitate Jean Claude van Damme, punching and kicking everything in his little world. We attend baby classes at the hospital.

She experiences everything while I play the role of observer and supporter. I watch in awe as her body changes. I wonder at the way she subconsciously adopts those caressing gestures that accentuate her beautiful shape. I gave up my office so Bubba can have a nursery. I hope I have the appropriate letters to spell out his real name on the door.

And I can’t wait to see him smile.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Brady Meigs Alden  Melissa Alden

A Lack of Training

“Put your hands where I can see them.” The words slid off my tongue as easily as when I was wearing a badge. Yet two police academies and hundreds of hours of supplemental instruction have not properly prepared me for this new assignment. There are holes in my training. No one taught me that an eight month old baby can consume 4 oz of milk at 10:00 and expel 5 oz of poop at 10:05. They explained how to get blood out of my shirt but not blue yogurt. I learned how to break down and reassemble an M-16 with my eyes closed but the nomenclature of strollers and car seats is beyond my ken. There weren’t any classes on how to explain that one can’t go from the first rung on the jungle gym ladder to the third or fourth without leaving a nasty mark. There weren’t any refresher courses in nursery rhymes.

And I certainly wasn’t trained to deal with this scenario. The crime was couscous throwing. The perpetrator was a 13 month old girl. But retreating wasn’t an option.

So, I did what cops do – Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

“Now don’t move,” I said as I picked grains from my hair with one hand and reached for baby wipes with the other, silently wishing that the restraints of a high chair were as effective as handcuffs. I was beginning to realize that I should have brushed up on my self defense skills before I traded my shiny silver “Officer Wragg” name tag for the less formal moniker of “Miss Jill”, Assistant Preschool Teacher. But I thought I’d be okay. After all, age and treachery do triumph over youth and skill, and I have food in my refrigerator that’s older than most of these kids.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used as a reason for a time-out. You have the right to attempt to win me over by making cute faces or hugging me. You have the right to formulate some sort of apology for misbehaving before punishment is determined. If you are not able to formulate an apology, you have the right to sulk for the duration of your time-out. If you decide to begin screaming now, your time-out will commence immediately. You have the right to stop screaming at any time in order to make amends for your previous behavior. Do you understand your rights? Are you willing to apologize now so you can go play with your friends?

Still clutching a fistful of couscous, my assailant looked at me as though I was speaking Serbo-Croatian. Sighing, I remembered the police chief’s advice that children under age 7 cannot form criminal intent, and his offer of fraternal support, “Call if you need back-up.” I looked around for a phone.

Give me fighting drunks any day. Alas, my adventures in babysitting had only just begun. When I got the news that I’d been hired, I practiced by dressing a cabbage patch doll in a preemie diaper, but I stood it on its head to do it so I practiced some more. Diapers aside, I expected the job to be similar to police work and I was excited about that. I wanted to feel like an authority figure again, serving the public and telling people what to do. I wanted to prevent crimes by stopping wild gangs of marauding toddlers from terrorizing the neighborhood. I was eager to perform traffic control tasks, even if it was just on potty breaks. And I was accustomed to being pulled, pushed, fallen on, yelled at, and confronted by people who cry to get out of their societal responsibilities.

I looked forward to breaking up fights, chasing escapees, managing unruly groups, and dealing with attitude problems. I expected to execute searches (into diapers) to identify improvised explosive devices and hazardous materials. I knew I’d have opportunities to issue verbal warnings and citations for bad behavior, and to perform safety inspections on plastic motor vehicles.

Yup, it is similar, right down to eating donuts, drinking coffee and getting puked on. Even the disputes mirror the grown-up conflicts I’d handled on patrol.

“He took my car.”

“She hit me with a phone.”

“He bit me.”

“Whaaaaaaa…..(sob)”

I initiate most of my investigations in the same manner, too. “Hey kid, assume the position. Do you have anything on your person that will hurt me or anyone else? Sticky lollipops? Peanut butter? Diarrhea?”

But there is one big difference. The people I monitor are glad to see me. The only thing better than hearing a room full of children shout my name when I walk through the door is catching the various bodies as they hurl themselves at me for hugs. Heck, I even forgave them for inflicting me with strep during my first week.

Emerson wrote that the earth laughs in flowers. I’ve learned that the earth laughs in children.

Now if I could just get that Barney song out of my head.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/