Impressions

Ten weeks ago, my husband and I had a baby. He is remarkable (to us) in many ways, but on day three he began to distinguish himself as a unique talent. He started doing impressions.

Given his communication skills at present, which consist of involuntary emissions like wails, slurps, burps, and farts, the impressions are largely gestural. I’ll give you an example.

Day three, the day my milk came in. Our tiny trooper had been nursing away on breasts bigger than his sweet little face, when suddenly he faced breasts big as his head. The little guy was undaunted. In the middle of the night, with a mum not quite sure what had changed and an oh-so supportive but totally clueless dad, Baby K managed his first impression. He wrinkled up one side of his face, opened wide and plunged forward. I could almost hear him growling, “aargh.” A pirate intent on attainable riches. This impression lasted about a week.

As the drama of the new milk subsided, Baby K refined his second impression. After a milky meal, his head lolled back over my arm, eyes rolled back, half closed. He just laid there with his little mouth lax, breathing slow. He had his milk stone on. Accurate in every detail of lax muscle and blank expression, my little baby's stoner impression.

As the pleasure of the meal became more mundane, he affected a new impression, this one moving away from the “type” and in to the specific personality. He started doing Jack Benny. After finishing at the breast, he would bring one hand up to his chin, rest it there coquetishly, the other hand across his middle. I could almost hear, “Oh, Raahchester.” Where he got this one, heaven knows.

Recently, as Mr. Benny has gone the way of the pirate and the stoner, our little guy has taken on The Keebler Elf. I’m hard pressed to say how he’s doing it, really. Something in the way he holds his upper lip, and of course the leiderhosen and the ridiculous hat are a dead ringer.

Look out Rich Little. Vegas here we come.