Role Model

5:30 a.m. -- 3 mos., 27 days old

Baby A woke up at about 11 last night, just as we were about to turn off the lights. I changed her diaper, but she peed before I could attach the new one so I had to change her onesie, too. By the time I snapped the last snap, she was wide awake and ready to roll.

M put the kid on her productive breast. (We call that one "ice cream boobie" and the one that produces less "trainer boobie," so when I'm handing her off I'll say, "Ice cream or trainer?") Baby A had no interest in feeding and began to play a favorite game: raise her head, turn 90 degrees to face down, do a face plant on the boob, raise head, turn 90 degrees to face M's feet, do an ear plant on the boob, then burble with pleasure.

We're at least partially responsible for such shenanigans. When Baby A learned to roll last month, one night we gave her a delightful lesson just before bedtime. When she went for her pre-sleep feeding, she wanted simultaneously to nurse and roll -- a natural desire to combine two of life's greatest pleasures. When M repeatedly discouraged her from rotating while keeping a nipple firmly locked between her lips, Baby A was more outraged than she'd been in her life, emitting a series of wails and gut-shaking sobs. I calmed her a little by walking her while discussing life's limitations, mentioning gravity and the hard fact that eating too much unagi or lasagna or dulce de leche ice cream makes your mouth happy but your tummy sick. But philosophy's consolations pale in the face of existential grief. The sobs ceased only when she exhausted herself, about 20 minutes later.

Last night, with Baby A turning -- nipple-less -- and burbling, M began to shake with silent laughter.

"Don't encourage her," I said.

Baby A probably needed no encouragement to stay jacked up this time; it was nearly half an hour and a couple of Beatles songs ineptly rendered a capella ("Michelle" and, incongruously, "Here Comes The Sun") before she settled in.

Such incidents make me realize that we've arrived at a place I've been dreading: Baby A is not just learning from the world around her but absorbing almost everything she senses. Which means she watches and listens to everything we say and do. Which means it's time to start monitoring everything we say and do.

Yikes.

We've already joked about creating a curse jar, in which we'd be forced to put quarters or dollar bills every time one of us swears. M is more guilty of this than I, she'll acknowledge. Perhaps it's her father's military background. But she has moments when she drops all pretense of professionalism or decorousness and swears like a drill sergeant. Similar imprecations have been known to drop from my lips as well. So it's probably only a matter of time before Baby A begins strewing random "shits" and "fucks" into her conversation.

Then there's our bodily habits. I'm not worried about burping or farting. M and I have long practiced a routine in which the instigator of the bodily expulsion will say "Excuse me" while the spectator enthuses "Good one!" That seems a reasonable practice for a toddler, too. In fact, neither of us will be surprised if Baby A's first words come after a particularly juicy explosion; whether they'll be "Cuze me" or "Good one!" will depend on its perpetrator.

I'm more worried about those moments when I look into a full-length mirror and worry, not quite to the point of obsession, about my burgeoning middle-aged spread. This has been burgeoning for some 25 years, and I certainly don't worry about it when I'm having a second bowl of dulce de leche ice cream. But I do worry about it when I have to, say, shop for new pants, and this seems an unhealthy practice for Baby A to absorb. It may be inevitable, but do I have to be the role model for self-hatred?

Ditto for my acne-pocked skin. Had someone told me when I was a pimple-encrusted teen that I would still be suffering from this blight three decades later, I'd have scoffed, or committed suicide. Fortunately, long ago I more or less called a truce with my epidermis, which I try to spend as little time looking at or thinking about as is humanly necessary. (I shave in the shower partly because I like long showers and partly so I don't have to face the daily bathroom mirror.) But I still have occasional dark moments of poring over my pores, and I'd as soon Baby A be spared knowledge of such events.

Of course, larger questions are also at stake. My sister says she never took advantage of the fact that her son looked younger than his years to, for example, get free airline tickets. "How can I tell him to behave ethically if I won't do the same?" she asked.

I applaud such reasoning and believe I have the ability to emulate it. Mostly. It's no doubt good that I waited to have Baby A until I reached middle age, since in my early 20s I was known to occasionally shoplift (meat was my item of choice for a year or so), and I didn't stop sneaking into movies at multiplexes, seeing two or (once) even three movies at a stretch, until about the age of 35. M, whom I've always believed to be a better person than I in most every respect, struggles less with such personal ethics. At least I think so -- I'll have to ask her which of her habits she fears Baby A will imitate.

My biggest fear of the moment remains small caliber: nose picking. Already Baby A has caught me with a digit busy exploring one nostril or another, her startlingly large blue eyes unblinking. It's too late to break out the handkerchief or run for a tissue -- she has the evidence burned into her irises and, no doubt, memory bank.

Granted, she has never seen me suck my toes; she has learned to enjoy that practice on her own. But how much more eagerly will she indulge in nasal spelunking knowing that one of the people she emulates most -- or at least sees the most -- practices it semi-routinely?

Worse by far will be the moment when she realizes that my parental admonitions to "Stop picking your nose" (or insert other distasteful or socially irresponsible habit here) are worth less than the air they're uttered with. I'll bet Atticus Finch never picked his nose. I fear the day that Scout Finch never faced, the day Baby A awakes and says: Hypocrisy, thy name is Daddy.