Simian Farmer: S - M - R

So the other night I was lounging and watching something inane on television. Which is a bit of a tautology, but whatever.

I had just finished putting Declan to bed and my wife was in the nursery changing the effluence from our younger son's toxic waste factory. Exposing his manly bits to the fresh air quite often elicits a scrunchy-faced squalling reaction from him, so we habitually end the process by re-dressing him in non puke-stained attire in his crib with the rotating classical music mobile churning hypnotically above his head. Mozart, Beethoven and Bach reduced to infantile placation.

Amy, more than slightly obsessed with ensuring that Tavish is breathing at all times, has the receiving end of the baby monitor out in the living room cranked to 11 for those times when he isn't in plain sight or velcroed to her bosom. I'd be more annoyed by it but for the fact that a snoozing baby breathing quietly in his crib creates delightful allusions to Darth Vader out in the living room.

Stretched out on the sofa while Amy was changing Tavish, I could hear all the goings-on in the nursery via the monitor. It's amazing what a twenty dollar piece of technology can pick up and broadcast into the next room: the crinkle of the new diaper being strapped on, Amy's subdued baby voice, the clicking of the plastic bits on the mobile, the tinny classical fugues, Tavish blinking...

The music being transmitted out to me from the speaker atop the television seemed a little slow, like a 78 rpm vinyl LP getting flicked down and played at 45. (Yes, I am just barely old enough to have those memories.) A wee bit off. My first thought at hearing that, and for which I would like to blame the relatively late hour and my general state of inanity-induced lethargy, was, Hmmm, sounds like it's about time to change the batteries in the baby monitor.

Amy laughed at me again a week after I related the anecdote to her because she finally clued in to the fact that we have the receiver plugged in behind the television.