(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
My son’s brain is a sponge. From the time he was a bunch of multiplying cells somewhere deep inside his mother, there was a feedback circuit developing. Stimuli coming from taps, prods, even singing from his mother and I through developing nerve endings into his crysalis. Nothing develops in a vaccuum. Every prod is turned into information somewhere in his growing nervous system, and tucked away in the fanning matrix of neurons which would be later wrapped in flesh and bone that we kiss and gaze adoringly at.
As such, I am careful what I feed into that matrix.
For instance: Sam doesn’t need to see the postman.
I cuddle him and give him back the lollypop. He sucks at it while coming down off his energetic bawl, now and then gasping for air.
“Home time,” I whisper.