He’s sitting on the floor in front of me, chewing on a shoe. Granted, I could have said the same thing six months ago, but there’s something about the look on his face while he does it. Something… knowing. Where once there was nothing but a desire to put things in his mouth, now there’s a sense that he’s saying “I made my choice. I want to be here, chewing this shoe.”

Who am I to argue with such conviction?

It’s becoming increasingly hard to just make Felix do things, anyway. He frequently laughs at you when you tell him not to do things (by which I mean a firm “NO”, not a reasoned discussion), willfully ignores attempts to get his attention, and fights to gain control of objects. That’s not to say he’s a terror – anyone who says an 11 month old baby can actively cause a lot of trouble is sipping from the drama cup – but he’s definitely learning how to do his own thing. This week I had a mug of coke sitting on my desk and I saw him making a dash for it. I got there in time, but a power struggle ensued which ended when he yanked the cup and dunked coke all over his own face.

The bubbling and somewhat irrational rage within me at this point was completely removed by how bloody funny his facial expression was during the tug of war. Lips pursed tight, brow furrowed. Tiny baby anger that suggested he was very, very unhappy with my insubordinate behaviour.

On the less rebellious side of things, Felix has also learned to clap. More importantly, he’s learned to clap when you tell him to. It’s a relief to have confirmation he isn’t retarded. And it’s adorable, of course.

Seriously, I was under the impression I was getting some sort of monkey-like pet that would wander around my floor and say the darndest things on command. Now I’m getting the feeling it’s not only going to turn into a child, but that child is going to turn into an adult!

As he sits on our floor nearby, examining an empty bottle of V energy drink and staring at a man on the television pretending to be a woman who is pretending to be a swan, he’s looking remarkably grown-up all of a sudden. First there’s the quietly sitting on the floor thing, which has partially replaced wandering around and screaming. Something clicked in his little brain and he realised that sitting and watching the TV from afar is more productive than climbing up and yelling baby expletives a foot away from the screen.

He has also started repeating sounds back to us. Mostly “da da da da da da da” and “nan nan nan nan”. Rachel tries desperately to make him say “mum mum mum” on command, but he knows the only time to yell for mum is when you’re crying and hungry.

The worst part of this wave of intelligence is its effect on serious business like putting on clothes and removing bodily waste. Where once Felix was content to pout and wait quietly while you prodded and poked and wiped and pulled and inserted and removed and clipped and buttoned, now he takes personal offence to any invasion of his privacy. As if we should be absolutely ashamed of ourselves for daring to decide when he should or shouldn’t wear pants.