I know it’s much too early to be wondering about trivia such as what my darling baby boy is going to be when he grows up but I just can’t trust my Motherhood brain to keep its nose out of anything these days. I found myself on the back of my motorbike today (well, I didn’t just find myself there, I did actually put myself there but you know, some lights are long enough to forget oneself at for a moment…) wondering what sort of brain my little spudlet is going to have , whether or not he’s going to be good at math or… well actually I was indulging in a fantasy where-by he begs us for some money so that he can start trading in stocks on the net and by the time he’s 14 he’s made his first ten million and our stake is worth enough to retire on... anyway, so there I was, mid-fantasy when something he did the other night crept in and my fantasy switched tracks very suddenly to one in which he is Hairdresser to the Stars. Well, you know.
He was in his bath, the bath which is supposed to calm him down and warm him up and leave him all nice and snugly for the Three Bs (Bottle Book and Bed) but which is proving to be a rather more energetic affair involving the throwing of objects full of water and much excitable screaming. He was in his bath and I was kneeling beside it while he tried to feed me various bath-toys when he stopped what he was doing, stood up (forcing me to circle my hands around him to stop him falling and leaving me totally defenceless) and started playing with my hair. First he fluffed up my fringe and posed it one way and then another, just like a hairdresser who has just cut it too short, then he put both hands into my hair and rubbed them up and down vigorously. Finally, he leaned in, one hand on either side of my head and kissed me on the forehead before sitting down.
After I stopped laughing I thought that perhaps this is another form of Daddy-worship, as the frog has such unruly hair that he has to tame it into submission with mousse every morning, no doubt fluffing up his fringe and rubbing his hair vigorously, watched by his adoring offspring who might even get a kiss on his forehead out of it. Then, I thought perhaps that it is a sign that my hair is in such terrible shape that my 1 year old son has decided to take a hand in my coiffure… Just so long as there's no cat sick in it.
I realise that any sort of speculation about the future actions of a child as young as mine is completely futile, however it is pernicious. I've previously imagined him as a young singer-songwriter climbing up the charts; as a young athlete on his way to a gold medal; as a hero of the motorcycle race track and, my favourite, as a lovely middle aged man who comes round to spend weekends with his old Mum just because he misses her sometimes. Yes yes yes, I know, pathetic isn't it? I mean, he can't even talk yet (although he did swoop into the kitchen, grasp me by the knees and plead for 'Bia, bia bia biabiabia bia bia BIA!!! BIA!!!'. I tried him with a tin of Special Brew but apparently that's not what he wanted.)
It's not that I want to be some sort of puppet-master, pulling strings for the spud to mould him into whatever vision I have of him, it's just that I would hate to miss something, to not notice some skill which one day he'll look back on and say 'if only I'd taken dance lessons/extra physics/gardening when I was younger I could have lived my dream.'
So, I'll keep dreaming at red lights and maybe one day he'll let me know what he wants. Until then however he can be whatever I want. Stock tips, anyone?