A Wink and a Whimper

A Wink and a Whimper

I wake up to the sound of slippers tiptoeing and hushed breathing. Mama thinks I’m still asleep, and for her sake, I pretend for a moment. She tiptoes past me like I’m a landmine. I’m not. I’m a radar. I may not speak yet, but I sense—the mood, the panic, the thousand tabs open in her mind.

She’s whispering into that glowing black rectangle again. It’s always glowing. It glows when she wakes, when she eats, when she feeds me, when she puts me down to sleep, and—sometimes—when she thinks I don’t notice her crying.

One more sound!

It was soft, like Mama’s hum and firm like Papa’s “No.”

I don’t know its name, but it made my heart thump differently — like the ceiling fan had just whispered a secret to me.

I can’t speak yet. You all call it “pre-linguistic,” but trust me, I’m not silent. I speak through the lift of an eyebrow, the twist of a lip, and the flutter in my fingers. It’s just that none of you speak my language.

Mama rushes about again — she’s always rushing. Her eyes are tired, but her voice is honey. She sings lullabies; she doesn't believe in anymore, multitasking love, like it’s a scheduled Scrum meeting.

I watch. I record. I decode.

You think I’m chewing that toy car. I’m not. I’m trying to figure out how wheels make journeys. Because you move so fast, but never seem to arrive anywhere happy.

Papa’s still brushing his teeth, half-dressed, muttering at his laptop like it’s alive. His eyes haven’t met mine, but the Excel sheet is getting a solid dose of affection.

That is Our morning routine. Before their coffee. Before my milk. Before anyone actually talks to me. But I see everything.

I stretch—dramatically, with full flair—and let out a tiny squeal. Ah, that does it. The adults activate like I’m a fire drill.

“Mama! He’s up!” Papa calls, still not looking at me. Mama appears with a smile, a kiss, and her phone tucked neatly between her shoulder and cheek. I consider snatching it. But not yet.

Today, I sit. Like, properly sit. I’m wobbly, sure, but upright. This isn’t just cute—it’s gross motor development, thank you very much. Piaget would say I’m exploring my sensorimotor stage. I say I’m surviving my “observe-and-dodge” phase. Observe the chaos. Dodge the overly helpful auntie trying to wipe my face with her spit-wet finger.

I pick up Mama’s phone and hurl it under the sofa. On purpose. A casual experiment in object permanence. That toy giraffe is still down there somewhere, mocking me from the shadows. I peer under. It’s gone. Then it’s back. I now believe in magic. And teething.

Speaking of which, my gums are on fire. So I chew. On the blanket. On Papa’s glasses. On the corner of the yoga mat. Everything’s a science lesson, if you taste it right. But when I chew the camera cord, everyone panics like I’ve bitten into a nuclear wire.

"You offer silicone dinosaurs. But have you tasted a camera cord?"

I babble. "Ba ba”, “da da”, “ma ma." You say it's adorable. You record it. You send it to the family group chat with heart emojis. But you don’t know: it’s early resistance literature. A manifesto against being spoken about and not to.

Mama reads me a story, half-looking at the pictures, half-scrolling on her phone. It’s a good story, I think. I try to turn the page. She gently nudges my hand away. We mustn’t crumple the book. We mustn’t touch too much. We mustn’t crawl off the clean mat.

Ah yes—the mat. Soft. Sterile. Shiny. A lovely prison of alphabet tiles and foamy, frictionless freedom. I try crawling toward the real floor, toward the thrilling unknown of unvaccuumed corners.

“No, beta. Dirty,” Mama says. She says it every day, like a spell. The real world is “dirty,” so I stay on the mat, where I’m safe from bacteria and apparently... from learning.

The house fills with noise by late morning. Aunties arrive. Some relatives. Uncles I’ve never seen before hold me like I’m a fragile coconut. They call me “King Kong,” “Chikoo,” and “Mr. President,” all in one conversation. One of them pokes my cheeks and says, “Why so serious?”

I want to ask, “Why so loud?”

Papa is on that glowing thing again. The “lap-top.” I try crawling to it. He smiles, but then gently pushes me aside."Not now, baby boy. Papa has work."

Ah yes! The phrase I hear more than lullabies — Not now.

Do you know what that does to a brain like mine?

Your psychologist friends might call it deferred reinforcement, but for me, it feels like chasing shadows barefoot on a floor full of legos.

He says he’s multitasking: bonding with me and responding to emails. I stare at the side of his face as he scrolls. He kisses my forehead absentmindedly. Doesn't even realize it. That’s okay. I store those kisses like coins in a piggy bank. I’ll need them later.

Auntie lets me press all the remote buttons. It feels powerful. Then she complains that Netflix keeps recommending Korean horror and Cocomelon back-to-back. That’s on you, Auntie.

Grandpa arrives like a whisper. No phone. No urgency. Just arms that feel like tree trunks and smells like aftershave and old books. He doesn’t talk to me like a baby. He just shows me things—the sky, the neighbour’s dog, leaves shaking like they know something we don’t.

I giggle at the dog. It smells like freedom. Mama hurries out. “Don’t let that dog near him! He might get sick!”

Still not sure if she means me or the dog.

When I sit quietly on Grandpa's lap holding a toy, my mind is busy wondering how its tail is so jiggly-wiggly. When I raise my hand, he raises his, too. He mimics me — not to mock, but to mirror.

You see, mirroring is a form of love.

It’s the first way we learn who we are. When you smile back, when you respond, my brain wires up. You ignore, I still wire up — just differently. Into silence. Into suspicion. Into sadness.

The TV's on in the afternoon. Grandma is enthralled by a serial where everyone’s crying. I cry sometimes too, but she tells me to hush. Apparently I don’t cry as gracefully as the TV heroines. She’s warm though, when she holds me. Her arms smell like milk and magic. But sometimes, when I reach for her, she doesn’t notice. The plot twist is too intense.

Then I cry. Not a big one—just a confused, tired cry. Overstimulated. Maybe a little hungry. Maybe I just need to be held. Mama rushes in with a pacifier. Papa switches the rhymes on. The screen blinks, sings, flashes. They call it “soothing.”

It’s Behaviorism 101.

Cry = Plug.

Repeat = Conditioning.

Result = Quiet baby.

You think I’m calm now. But no, dear grown-ups. I’ve just given up explaining…

My world is made of wonder — yours is made of warnings.

“Don’t touch!”

“Don’t go there!”

“Careful!”

“Stop crying!”

“Smile for the photo!”

You want me to perform emotions on cue, but deny me the time to process them.

You celebrate my giggles but flinch at my frowns.

You post me online but hush me when I cry in public.

Do you know what that teaches me?

That some feelings are allowed.

And some... are not.

Evening comes. The house dims. The chaos fades into background hums of dishes clinking and Netflix autoplay. I lie in Papa’s lap. He scrolls with one hand and pats my back with the other. A rhythm we both pretend is bonding. I look up at him. He doesn't see me. I hope one day, he does.

Mama plays lullabies on the tablet. She says music boosts my brain. Maybe. But I’d trade all the Mozart and multilingual rhymes in the world for ten full minutes of her eyes meeting mine without the glass screen between us.

I stare at the ceiling light. My old friend. It glows. It never asks me to smile. It never claps when I gurgle. It just... exists. I think that’s what I want to do, too.

Later, in the dark, I saw the moon. It didn’t ask me to smile. It didn’t shush me. It just existed.

Peacefully.

So I stared.

And blinked.

And in that moment, I wondered — what if the moon is another baby, just watching? Learning? Waiting for the world to slow down?

Soon, Mama picks me up. Wraps me. Walks. Hums a song she doesn’t realize she remembers. Her heartbeat is my favorite music. Her arms finally free of gadgets.

Just me and just her!

I melt into her chest. The world slows. The baby monitor blinks, but I’m not performing anymore.

As I drift, I wonder—why does love feel like a schedule? Why is silence seen as success? Why do my giggles earn applause, but my tears earn distractions?

What if you stopped recording me and really saw me? What if you didn’t teach me to be calm, but taught me that my feelings were okay?

I’m only a baby. But I’m learning everything from you. The way you talk. The way you touch. The way you treat each other. Bandura would call it social learning. I just call it Tuesday. I’ll remember the kisses you didn’t know you gave. The sighs you thought I couldn’t hear. The warmth of Grandpa’s walk. The coldness of scheduled cuddles.

I am not a milestone chart.

Definitely not your weekend project.

I am not a clean mat on a dirty floor.

I don’t need much, I just need you to slow down.

I am your mirror, your memory in the making!

I don’t need perfection. I need presence. I don’t need gadgets. I need your gaze.

To listen — not to my words, but to my gaze, my breath and my pauses.

And before I speak your language, I am hoping that you'll try to learn mine too!

**********