Near the end of my pregnancy, I spent some time on the phone with a good friend who had recently had a baby boy, having conversations about all the pregnancy and childbirth minutia that only two baby-obsessed people can have. I remember listening in slight disbelief to her excitement over discovering the best way to swaddle her son for daytime napping (one arm out/one arm in), and wondering if one really needed to pay attention to such minor details. I felt confident that if I could master the major issues--feed the baby, change his diaper, keep him breathing--I wouldn't sweat the small stuff. Of course, now I know better. Both Nate and I learned fairly quickly that swaddling Henry properly is a science, and when done wrong, generates prune-face grimaces, then squawks, and finally full screams, from both Henry and the observing parent, who usually offers not-helpful information the swaddling parent is already aware of in a voice of near panic: "Both arms out! Both arms OUT! He hates the arms in! You'll lose the whole swaddle unless both arms are OUT!"
One other tidbit of information I remember well from that prenatal phone conversation with my friend was a brief mention that her weeks-old son was strangely preoccupied with the ceiling fan. I thought it was a little weird, and that maybe her baby was a bit off (Sorry!!). Of course, now I know better. It isn't weird. It is adorable, and common in brilliant babies, something I know because Henry is also strangely preoccupied with the ceiling fan. Actually, he is obsessed with it. For the past week, I've come awake to hear him stirring in his bassinet, churning his little fat baby arms around in crazy, stuttering pinwheels, and making gooey sounds of delight. The first time I heard these noises, I was sure he was thinking of me, and rolled over to peer down into his bassinet and be adored by the child who depends on me for survival. His face clouded over, and he stuck out his lower lip in an unfocused baby pout. I was blocking the ceiling fan. Now it is pretty much a routine--he wakes up slowly, making little kitten noises that escalate into giggles, and when I wake up fully and look down into his bassinet, he is engaged in riotous conversation and inside joking with the ceiling fan. Henry seems to be posing important questions and strong emotion--from what I can tell, it goes something like this: "Hey, Mr. Ceiling Fan! You are so pretty! Why do you have five fan blades instead of four? How did you get up there? Come down here so I can put you in my mouth! What happened to your third light bulb? Can we get married in the state of Illinois? Do you have nipples? I like nipples. I LOVE you! Do you wear diapers? I do. You're HILARIOUS!"
Luckily for Henry, we have ceiling fans in every room in the house. When he tires of the ceiling fan in our bedroom--this takes about an hour, maybe a bit longer if I turn him around in the bassinet so he can admire his friend from another angle--he can strike up another conversation from the changing table in his nursery. Henry seems genuinely flattered when he glances up and realizes that Mr. Ceiling Fan has decided to accompany him from the bedroom for his diaper changes. Once diaper changing is accomplished (with much greater ease, now that Henry has discovered such a pleasant distraction), we migrate to the living room to find . . . Mr. Ceiling Fan again, also sans third light bulb.
After the first couple days, the cuteness has begun to wear off. I have to say, I don't really know what Henry sees in him, and it makes me a little cranky to be jealous of a household accessory. The other day, when I couldn't get even a vacant half-smile out of my son but Mr. Ceiling Fan received high-pitched squeals and a nose-crinkling grin, out of exasperation I tried to form a secret anti air-circulation society with Curious George and Corduroy Bear. They were noncompliant. But I've had to grudgingly accept the fact that the benefits of Mr. Ceiling Fan--namely, a distraction that lasts long enough for me to take a shower (with the door open, of course)--make it worthwhile to tolerate Henry's highly overrated esteem for him. After all, I think I will actually be able to get some work done while my son contentedly stares into the distance for blissfully quiet or at least cheerful minutes and even hours.
Just imagine how much of my dissertation I'll be able to write when I finally pull out the big guns and show Henry that Mr. Ceiling Fan turns ON.
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