And the teacher becomes the student

I will admit that, before I became a mom, I bought into the idea of parents as teachers. After all, with the amount of learning paraphenellia targeted at babies and new parents one might be under the false impression that it was, in fact, the babies who were doing the learning. Baby sign language CD's, trilingual picture books, genetic swabbing kits to determine your pintsize child's athletic leanings at the age of one day to better assure he or she is taught the correct sport. All of these things simply facilitated my image of the ongoing tradition of an older, wiser, authoritative figure. I would teach my child to read, build rockets, to meditate, to value other people and their differing faiths while holding strong his own convictions.
Imagine my surprise, then, when nearly nine months following my son's entrance into the world, I realized the tables had not turned but had been upside down from day one. I was not the teacher but rather a very attentive, albeit unknowingly so, student.
My concessions thus far include but are not limited to the following:
My myriad implements of mass instruction are of little use aside from cutting teeth via The Baby Signs book. High pitched whining ensues when anything related to the baby composer or artist of your choice are introduced. Lights and buttons which in some universe are intended to inspire counting and architectural skills hold attention for limited seconds.
To compound the frustration in learning that my hightech academic toys are all for not, it appears that the very same items translated into adult toys have unending allure and fascination. The baby remote control, given its whiring lights and baby songs, seems to me a potential attention holder. It is not. However, daddy's highly coveted HD 3,300 channel remote that should never be drooled on is the end goal of many a baby trek across the livingroom, over couch pillows and laps. The draw seems to be that daddy often holds it and baby can never have it as the same fascination is not applied to a similar, albeit, old remote with batteries extracted. This same theory applies to keys. Baby keys, with their gummy, teething friendly surfaces and bulky features are old news to a pre toddler who has found his mother's grimy, sharp, worn key chain. In an attempt to compromise, I found a few unused drugstore and book shop discount cards, the ones with the little holes for a keychain, and made the baby his own set of mother approved, sanitary items. This was a valiant but futile effort. The same follows with books. I understand that some amount of chewing will happen at this stage but if board books are made for such things why do my novels seem to make it to Kai's mouth more than Good Night Moon? A valuable lesson, I'm sure, this idea of intended playthings falling by the wayside and wayside items used as teething and playthings. A similar lecture might be given on intended food substances used as playthings but forever greeted with a closed mouth screwed into a grimace. Hand the child a carrot stick and it it returned to you with a less than pleased expression. Hand the kid an orange crayon and down the hatch it goes.
I could sit down to tea and list millions of tiny, minute instances where the above patterns come in to play but what does it all mean? Perhaps more than simple observations of a pattern repeating is the overall lesson of flexibility. Intentions are honorable until a certain point. In my case that point came at delivery. Parenthood arrived and as flexible as I thought I was, I had another flex coming.