Sign Language for Babies

Today the littlest Clouthier enjoyed his first college course. We always knew we'd spawn a genius, but a college class before age one? Bursting with pride.

Fluency in a foreign language carries that je ne sai quoi in polite society so that's where we started with Monsieur Petite Clouthier. No, not Francais quite yet, but sign language!

In an attempt to civilize the Petite Oisseau, a more effective means of communication seemed in order. Right now all conversations begin and end with clenched fists, red, contorted faces, and gutteral yells that resemble the Incredible Hulk mid-transformation or The Hulk of WOW (World of Wrestling) fame, take your pick. This boy is brutish. Built broad through the shoulders, stout through the legs and wide through the chest, and possessing strength that defies his size, yet displaying the emotional maturity of well, a baby, I decided that SOMETHING MUST BE DONE.

Untamed, this child could be a human WMD (weapon of mass destruction). Check that is a human WMD. I've experienced far more heart-stopping moments than I'd care to enjoy this early in the game. Let's see, we've found him up the stairs and down the hall in the game room (he knows only one way to get down the stairs--the quick, efficient way). Last week he climbed in the dishwasher. He can open every cupboard door. He climbs into the cupboards. He figured out how to undo his carseat.

"Melissa, he undid the carseat," my husband said.

"What-ever!" I retorted, "You just forgot to do it."

A week later Little Man was turned around and reaching for my hair in the driver's seat. Before he could crawl, I found him on our bedside table on his back. By some miracle, he had scooted in one direction (after waking from a nap on my bed and being sooooo bored for 20 seconds) and ended up on a two-foot square with a lamp. The child is a menace--to himself.

Now, he knows what he wants and if he can't get it, his mother should and if she can't get it, purple-headed yelling seems to do the trick. He can't express himself coherently, he has directives to give and like any thwarted human, he's peeved about it.

Enter sign language. Mr. Dr. snorted derisively when I mentioned teaching the youngin' sign language so he could better express his needs. Assuming the most sarcastic Polly-want-a-Cracker voice and walking behind the crawling baby, Mr. Dr. said, "Do you want to come? Come?" and then, as if talking to a mentally challenged person he motioned with his hands and slowed down, "Commmmmme?" The kid looked up at him with a "what are you, an idiot?" look which Mr. Dr. took to be a commentary on the sign language.

"Laugh if you want," I said, "But I'd rather know what's going on than being frustrated by not being able to help him."

"Okay, okay," Mr. Dr. said, "We'll see."

The class had four other kids, three moms, one grandma, two teachers and us. The baby ages ranged from four months to 18 months. Baby Clouthier wasn't the oldest or the youngest, but he was the smartest and cutest, no doubt about it. Cute, in a mean kind of way. It was clear that this child 1) was Rosemary's baby or 2) was the only kid with older siblings to harrass. He pulled the hair of little Katie. He poked Raven's blueberry eyes. He tried to goudge the eyes out of the class baby doll. He generally crawled and clawed his way through the room. It was Darwinian and the rest of the class were not survivors, I can assure you.

And then I noticed it and no, I'm not talking about the anti-social behavior. For four days, the precious little pumpkin had a fever. The fever broke Sunday night late--no signs of rash or anything so I chalked it up to the molars cutting through his gums. But as mothers so often can be, I was wrong. The little chap had a rash travelling from his hairline down his neck. It had not been there 45 minutes before when I changed him into his clean outfit for his first day of college. It was here now and it was too late. I'm not sure, but I think germs are exchanged when you poke a finger in an eyeball. For sure something gross happens when a formerly crawling finger gets shoved in another kid's mouth. I'm hoping everyone chalked his flushed look to dehydration or excitement.

A new mother would have left class. A new mother doesn't let her child attack other children. A new mother would be at the pediatricians office right now. But I am not a new mother. I'm an old mother; an old, tired mother. He is not bleeding. He has no fever. He is eating. He rarely sleeps yet seems remarkably well-rested. I am the one suffering right now. I think I need a doctor.

In addition to spreading diseases, we learned words. One of the first was Daddy. Personally, it's my favorite because it looks like the universal sign for Loser (hand shaped like an L on the forehead) except put the thumb on the forehead straight with the fingers up. Close enough. Mr. Dr. likes this one the best too and spent the lunch hour following the kid around the house saying, "Can you say Daddeee? Can you say Daddee?" with his hand you-know-where. And he thought this class was going to make me look like an ass?

The coolest thing we got was this tiny three-ring binder with 3x5 cards boasting pictures and directions for common words. The cards can be pulled out and put up somewhere to see. My second favorite word was "take turns". If I get really good at this, I'll be able to yell at my kids without saying a word. The only thing better, would be being able to yell at them in Spanish. Spanish is the best foreign language for harrassing your kids--its fast and intense and fluid. I'll settle for sign language--where maniacal screaming looks....civilized!

The biggest question is did our dear child learn anything? Well, maybe not. I have hope, though. Maybe we'll avoid the whining, screaming, ranting, fingernails-on-the-chalkboard screeching that we so enjoyed with our other two, especially with the middle child. Language, the ability to express oneself, is essential to human relationships. In the meantime, we'll have to be content with hair-pulling. Hey, that works too.