WALKING AROUND ONE of the more baby-centric suburbs the other day, a friend and I wondered whether there was a name for that phenomenon of talking to an infant solely for the benefit of other adults within earshot. Parents never do this - it's largely the preserve of hung-over, dissolute guys in combat shorts, walking across the beer garden with a Bloody Mary in one hand and a one-year old baby's hand in the other, writes John Butler
They tend to proclaim loudly, in the up-and-down tones of a children's television presenter, and without leaning down, "Alfie, they're called clouds. They're big and white, and yummy looking! Don't they look just like floating pieces of candyfloss?"
I think the guy in combat shorts is doing it so that everyone within earshot can tell what an alive, compassionate and in-the-moment human being he is, and after doing it, he glances over and possibly even winks as if to say, "Alfie's wild, isn't he? He doesn't even know what a cloud is, but we're still cool." I'm all for talking to kids, and it's great when people talk to them as if they are somewhat older - I would imagine that it helps them to learn new words and ideas - but you can clearly tell when things are being said more for your benefit than for theirs. This line has been delivered for you to understand that this guy is a babies' man. I think the word for it is con-ascencion.
Problem is, it's a double bluff. By trying to show the world that his capacity for joy has not been eroded, he's telling us that he's worried everyone else has noticed that his capacity for joy has already been eroded. A one-year old cannot get near the metaphorical conceit of flying candyfloss, and their tiny ears cannot hear - never mind process - the words that the big man is shouting some six feet above them as he drags them across the lawn. And yet, hang on, he's continuing. "Yes, that's called a jet-trail and it comes out of a plane" - here he throws his arms out wide, and starts running around in the beer garden while Alfie stares blankly after him, freshly dumped on his ass - "look at me, I'm a jet-trail, also known as a contrail!"
At this point, some of the adults will finally have to acknowledge his effort and, in doing so, temporarily exonerate him from his excessive drinking, because at least he is plugged into the joy of babies. Alfie's guardian has con-ascended, and from it, he may even get laid.
But when someone talks up to a child and down to an adult simultaneously, they are not being on the level with anyone. Not many people achieve the tricky balancing act that The Simpsons popularised and the makers of Pixar animations perfected, but why do people feel they have to try in the first place? Isn't it okay if you genuinely can't relate to tiny children? No, it's not okay. People talk like this because they feel they have to, and if the man in the beer garden could breastfeed the baby, he would - providing (and this is crucial) everyone in the room was watching him.
Contemporary society places such pressure on all adults to be amazing with children that those of us who may feel slightly unsure about our ability to relate to people under two feet tall will have to fake it, and loudly.
I have a couple of friends who are not able to relate to kids. They're not exactly puncturing beach balls or stubbing out butts in their milky rusk, but nor are they standing in line to squeeze a toy in front of their gurgling visages - they're just not that into them. Some of these friends of mine are men and, shockingly, some are women. Whether this feeling is born of inexperience in the field or of a more personal experience or from performance anxiety, as is most likely, it doesn't really matter. No matter what the cause, it's still a valid response not to want to hold the baby. I happen to think I'm a babies' man, but something happened at Christmas - something nearly happened, I should say - which has altered my relationship to tykes of all shapes and sizes forever, and instilled a certain froideur between us forever.
It was the week before Christmas, and a bunch of my women friends had gathered for a long lunch, as is the custom. Afterwards, they repaired to a drinking club where some male friends joined them - among them me. One of my friends brought along her new-born baby girl, who lay resplendent on the purple velvet couch in the darkened lounge of the drinking club, wearing a wine-coloured romper suit and deep red hat.
I was tired and emotional after a long day on the tiles with my guy friends, and went to flop down on the couch when someone noticed what was about to occur and grabbed my arm, restoring me to a standing position. I'll never know how close it came. All I know is that it was close enough for the incident to continue waking me, drenched, in the black of sleepless nights in January. Fans of The Sopranos will recall the demise of Adriana's poodle at the hands (or under the backside) of Christopher, who collapsed into the couch in an opiate slumber.
Everyone has at least two or three incidents on the what-might-have-been showreel of horrors in their lifetime, and that's one of mine. For the next year, to restore my reputation among the mothers of Europe, I will be talking loudly to every baby I see. As long as the adults are convinced, I'm happy.
John Butler blogs at http://lozenge.wordpress.com