Introducing My Little Idiot
By Mark Daniell
10/06/2011
While I wait for the bottle to sterilize I think this might be the opportune moment to begin a new phase of Mouse and Keys coverage.
He remains as yet unnamed, but for the sake of this column we shall call him my little idiot. Mainly because the first act my son has decided to perform while taking residence on this planet is to get himself caught up in a vicious circle of waning strength and growing hunger. It goes something like this: My Little Idiot is only little, and he doesn’t have much strength, so naturally he’s worked out that it pays to ration what little strength he has left. Energy conservation… an admirable sentiment, and one that on other occasions, such as long distance running, or the global population spike say, will reap high dividends, but one which it must be said takes something of a nose dive when faced with breast feeding. Breast feeding, or boobing, is the single most important occupation of a newborn, so when My Little Idiot decided to suckle for a few seconds and then revert back to energy saving he made a regrettable error of judgment. The following boobing sessions have found an even weaker baby with an even more stringent policy of energy conservation, and an even earlier decision to take a mid-suckle nap. He’s three days old now and he’s so knackered he can barely open his eyes for a pendulous boob slap. Yes, I know, we’ve all been there, but unlike the usual scenario outside Whiteleys at five am, this little fellow stands to lose more than his oyster card. So in step the medical corps and out come the sterilized syringes ready to squirt formula down his chops.
The unfortunate consequence of all this is that what had previously been a baby with a disposition so chilled out that it was worthy of paternal boasting, has now resorted to behaving like a nightmare customer in a three michelin starred restaurant, casually bellowing to attract the maitre d’ and leaving tips of monstrous black goop in parcelled form on a three hourly basis. Touché, My Little Idiot, touché.
As a casual aside I’d like also to mention that I’ve uncovered the fatal flaw in Pay It Forward, the schmaltzy Hayley Joel Osment film from a few years back. In it, a small child with a giant head comes up with a ruse so simple it could change the world: instead of paying back a good deed and so closing the circle of goodness it had created, why not pass it on to a stranger? In such a way the good deed carries on travelling around the world, growing to include new and more strangers. By paying it forward a sort of pyramid scheme of benevolence will sweep the globe and we’ll all be a happy part of it.
Except of course when you’re driving. If I’m twitching angrily on the Embankment, cursing the closure of Albert Bridge while flicking between radio stations to escape the inexcusably base ads, and through some dwindling shred of kindness decide to let another motorist in, the last thing I want him to do is Pay It Forward. If he Pays It Forward and lets another schmo in at the next junction, well that makes me two cars further back. In no uncertain terms my good deed has gone on to bite me in the ass. And of course, if the next guy pays it forward too it’s an exponential ass-bite. In fact, when you look at the logarithms, which you have to do when dealing with traffic jams, Paying It Forward sucks. I’ve a fair mind to write this into the IMDB review. Pay It Forward, the Mouse and Keys says: “logarithmically flawed”.