Byron took hold of the handle with his right hand. His weight pulled the door open. It swung out, and took him along, tipping him over backwards. … Diane dropped the box of oatmeal. With a hiss, its contents spilled over the counter and stove. She caught Byron’s head only inches from the hard tile floor. For a moment, Byron looked worried by his sudden upside-down placement. Then his cheeks puffed out, and he laughed.
“You’re gonna kill yourself,” she said, smiling at his amusement.
Byron groaned in an attempt to get up.
Diane righted him. She took out a pot from the cabinet for Byron to play with. She looked at the scattered flakes of cereal. “Shit,” she said. Byron had grabbed hold of the pot handle and now banged it on the floor. Steel on tile: a terrible clatter.
Diane’s timing in the morning was precise. Cleaning the cereal would stretch its limits. She hurried: pulled the metal tops off the stove, dumped them in the sink, grabbed a sponge, and went to work on the counter.
She heard a thud beneath her. Then a piercing, although muffled, scream from Byron.
Diane looked at her feet. Byron had fallen forward, right into the pot, his head submerged, his ass up in the air.
Diane shrieked and picked up Byron by his waist, half expecting the pot to be permanently wedged on his head. It did stay on briefly, carried up a foot or so before it fell to the floor with a ringing bang. Byron’s face emerged crimson, his neck retracted, his mouth gaping while he wailed, terrified.
“Okay, okay,” she said. Diane tried to lean her head back to get a view of Byron’s face. But he clung to her shoulder and pressed his nose into her neck. “Let me see,” she said, prying him off. “Let me see.” Byron’s head jerked at hers and he cried right into her eyes. There weren’t any cuts.
“Diane!” Peter’s voice came from behind her. “What happened?”
“He fell into a pot,” she said, turning to face Peter. Byron’s wails were cut off by the sight of his father. He lurched forward, arms out, to Peter.
“Da! Da!” he announced.
Peter’s hair was askew from sleep. He was in his underpants. He blinked at Diane and Byron. “Try and keep things quiet. I didn’t get to bed till four.” With that, Peter returned to bed.
Byron’s arms stretched for the departing Peter, a plea for Daddy to stay. “Oooh!” he called.
“Forget it,” Diane said to Byron.
Byron’s brown eyes queried her, his thin eyebrows bunched together above the bridge of his nose: “Da, Da?”
“Da, Da would rather sleep,” she answered.
Byron leaned back and clapped. He patted his pudgy hands together and watched her curiously. “Mama! Mama!” he said, explaining his applause.
She laughed. Although each night left her tired and disgusted by the workload of job and baby, these mornings were delights, full of hugs and cuddles, the warm comfort of Byron’s soft cheeks, and the flattery of his adoring eyes.
And his growth! His amazing acquisition of skills, subtle at first, but now explosive, were put on display by his morning energy. Byron greeted life with joy, so different from the adult attitude to a new day. Only half a minute after Byron’s disaster with the pot, he was back on the floor, crawling to the scene of the calamity, and rerisking its dangers.
While Diane quickly finished cleaning the stove and mixed a new bowl of cereal, she noticed Byron lowering his head down toward the pot, reenacting the crime. He let his forehead touch the rim, and then jerked back at the contact, as if the pot might grab him. At his escape, he would hoot, clap, grab the handle, and thump the pot on the floor, announcing his triumphant mastery.
She put Byron into his high chair, and reflected on his calling for Peter first, then saying her name. “Ah! Ah!” Byron spoke, while she strapped him in, his eyes going from the bowl of oatmeal to her, his hand pounding the table impatiently. “Ah! Ah!”
“You’re ready to talk,” Diane informed him. She picked up the bowl and used the silver baby spoon given to them by Peter’s mother, Gail, to sculpt out a small wave of cereal. Diane offered the stuff to Byron’s already open mouth — his narrow tongue out in the air, curled in anticipation. “Food,” she told him. “Food.”
Byron’s eyebrows went up, inquisitive, while he closed his soft red lips over the spoon and suctioned the mush inside. “Mmmm, rowrr, mmm, O!” he commented on the texture and taste.
“Food,” she said, and spooned more from the bowl. She held it up for him to see.
Byron banged his hand on the table, startling Diane. “Owff!” Byron exclaimed, and lunged forward to capture the spoon with his mouth. She gave him another portion.
Was he saying “food”?
“More?” she asked, gesturing with the spoon at the bowl of oatmeal.
Byron was grinding the mush, his fluted elastic lips pursed, his eyes almost crossed from concentration on the taste. “Mrrr, awrr, grrr, oof! Mrr, awrr. O!” Byron said to her.
“You’re saying something complicated. Compliments to the chef?”
“Diane!” Peter was at the door again. He had put on yesterday’s shirt — wrinkled from a night on the floor. Peter looked absurd, his hair shocked upwards, his thin legs shadowed by the billowing curtains that his belly made of the shirttail.
“What is it, Peter?” she snapped, ready to yell at him if he repeated his complaint.
“Did you say he fell into a pot?” Peter rubbed his eyes and peered at Byron.
“Da! Da!” Byron hooted.
“Yes,” she answered coolly. “He’s all right.”
“He fell into a pot on the stove and he’s all right!”
“No, no, no.” She laughed and lost track of the spoonful of oatmeal, dangling it within reach of Byron’s hand. He knocked the dollop of beige matter onto the table. “Byron,” she chided. She scooped more cereal and gave it to Byron while describing the accident to Peter. Her husband listened soberly at first, and then scratched his head sleepily.
“I think he’s psychotic,” Peter judged.
“That’s nice,” Diane said. “Nice way to talk.”
Peter shrugged. He opened the cabinet full of cereals and squinted inside. Peter switched on the overhead lights to see better but was startled by a hoot from Byron.
“Oooh!” Byron lurched forward, his fat arm hailing the light. His eyes narrowed, his mouth scrunched with effort. “Da! Da!” he shouted at the light.
“Daddy turned on the light,” Diane said.
“Da! Da! Oooh! Oooh!”
“No, Da, Da. Light,” she said.
“He thinks everything is called Da, Da,” Peter said.
This galvanized Diane. She unbuckled Byron from the high chair seat belt and put him on her hip. She turned on the globe over the table. “Light,” she said.
“Oooh.” Byron squinted from the glare.
“Light,” she repeated.
Byron queried her with his eyes.
She carried him into the living room. She turned on the standing lamp next to the couch. “Light!” she said. She walked to the end table on the other side and turned on that lamp. “Light!”
Byron put his fingers on her lips, a gentle, curious touch. “Laaa,” he said awkwardly from his throat.
“Light,” she repeated. She moved to the hallway and flipped the switch. “Light.” She pointed to the ceiling fixture.
“Laa! Laa!” he screamed, arching out of her arms, reaching to embrace the bulbs.
“Light, light.” She had to pull to carry Byron off (although he was in her arms, his attraction to the fixture seemed to have the force of planetary gravity) and went to the bedroom, flipping the wall switch. “Light, light.”