Since my earlier post, about my baby brother turning 50 today, elicited some interest, I decided to follow up with a photo of when he was little.
This is him now (in case you missed the other post):
Spitting the dummy 1
From the day he was born until the age of four years, Ming absolutely adored his dummy. He eventually called it his ‘tuntun’ (because Anthony remembered calling his own dummy a ‘tuntun’!) and it was pinned to Ming’s shirt 24/7.
By the time he was two years old we were up to tuntun number 11. Transitions from old, flat, chewed up, disgusting tuntuns to new, fresh, bulbous tuntuns were always difficult though and Ming would shriek, “I want my oooooooold tuntun!” But eventually he would bite and chew and suck the new dummy until it flattened into the shape he liked.
My mother thoroughly disapproved of the dummy, and by the time he was nearly four, Ming knew that when Grandma visited, she would say, “Oh take that horrible thing out of your mouth; you’re a big boy now!” So he became very surreptitious. He would suck the dummy madly until he heard her voice at the door, then he’d quickly unpin it and give it to me, so that she wouldn’t see it. “Quick, Mummy, hide the tuntun from Gwamma or she’ll gwowl,” he’d whisper, panic-stricken.
Sometimes I would put it in my pocket but if my mother stayed for longer than a couple of hours, Ming would soon become transfixed by the shape of his tuntun through my jeans pocket and stare at it longingly. Or he would brush past me and pat it, as if to say, “Soon, tuntun, soon.”
So I started putting it under his pillow so he could go and have a secret suck when he wanted to. It was hilarious – he was like a wardrobe drinker! He’d be in the middle of playing snakes and ladders with my mother and he’d suddenly dash away, up the hallway into his room, saying, “Juss a minit, Gwamma,” over his shoulder, then dash back, eyes slightly glazed, but resume the game with new energy. His secret was safe with me, and my mother never had a clue (until I told her later and she and I would crack up laughing!)
As soon as my mother went home, Ming would rush to his pillow, retrieve the tuntun and pin it back onto himself, then put it in his mouth and suck with great gusto, an ecstatic, dreamy expression almost immediately flooding his face.
I hadn’t thought to confront my mother about the fact that her disapproval of the dummy was affecting her relationship with Ming until one day, after she left, Ming climbed onto my lap, tuntun reattached and said, “I doan like Gwamma vewy much sometimes, Mummy.”
“She just thinks you’re too big for your tuntun, because you’re nearly four now,” I said, giving him a hug.
“Does you and Andony hate my tuntun too?” he said, a worried look on his face.
“Of course not!” I said, reassuringly.
“Thank Gawwwd!” he exclaimed, putting the tuntun into his mouth and looking up at me, his big blue eyes soft with contentment. And relief!
Ming nervous someone will see his ‘tuntun’!
My beautiful mother and Mingy (see the tuntun?)
Freedom
Anthony’s legs and little Ming.
Ming didn’t walk until he was 18 months old. There was no warning; he didn’t crawl or bum-slide or even stand first. He simply went from sitting to walking, to running, to running away, all in the space of a single day. (Actually, it was a single hour).
On that eventful day, I sat him on the grass as I hung out the washing. He liked to sit and play with the wooden pegs and would happily do so for ages. So I thought nothing of going back inside to make myself a cup of coffee.
I’d just filled the kettle when I heard a shriek and, terrified, I dashed outside, thinking, snake? spider? My panic increased dramatically when I saw that Ming wasn’t where I’d plonked him just moments ago. Unable to comprehend this, I stood stock still and listened intently. Another shriek, just behind me and I whirled around only to spot Ming hiding behind a tree adjacent to the clothesline and giggling with delight. And he was standing up!
“Ming!” I exclaimed, running towards him, at which he shrieked again and toddled away, his fat little legs wobbling with the unfamiliar movement. Stunned, I watched him take around 15 steps before falling gently onto his behind.
I rushed up to him. “You’re walking!” It was my turn to shriek with delight. I sat down beside him on the grass but he immediately got up again and began to run, his laughter filling the air.
And so began Ming’s tearaway phase. It didn’t matter where we were – at home, at the park, visiting friends, he would do just that – tear away, as fast as he could. This phase lasted exactly a year and nearly drove us insane with worry because if we weren’t holding tightly to his hand – something Ming hated – he’d be off! With a channel running through our property, and an unfenced yard, Anthony and I had to take turns doing ‘Mingwatch.’
Of course it was much worse if I took Ming into town to shop. He would not stay by my side for an instant, wanting always to dash away, looking for adventure. I was terrified he’d run onto a road or that I’d lose him in the supermarket crowd. Finally, Anthony and I agreed we needed to buy a child restraint.
This “leash” got us plenty of dirty looks (mostly from parents of clingy children, I thought jealously). And once, walking through a crowd of Japanese tourists with Ming straining desperately against the white leather harness, we became (much to my embarrassment) the subject of enormous hilarity, and curious pointing fingers.
Ming was nearly three when the leash was finally discarded. We’d all – even Ming – become so used to it that it came as a shock one morning when, harnessing him up for a day in town, he quietly said, “I’m gonna buy a new mummy for twenny dollars if you doan let me fwee [free].”
His tone was ominous.
I took the leash off tentatively. “You won’t run away?” I asked nervously.
Ming grinned acquiescence and willingly took my hand. “Thassa good mummy,” he said.
jmgoyder 