Unselfconsciousness

In 1947, Virgil Thomson was struck by the stage presence of Edith Piaf. "There is apparently," he wrote, "not a nerve in her body. Neither is there any pretense of relaxation. She is not tense but intense, in no way spontaneous, just thoroughly concentrated and impersonal."

Do babies have a physical expressiveness? If so, it's a complex one: a paradoxical combination of constant physical activity (Cleo's feet are almost always tensed as we walk; her head is rarely still) and occasional drop-dead relaxation (sleeping while being carried like a sack of groceries). Babies can work a crowd with their mercury smiles even as they ignore the most basic social conventions in voiding their bowels while in the hands of a well-meaning grandmother. They're spontaneous - that's for sure - but weirdly predictable at the same time (8:20? probably wants to go to bed).

Above all, though, what's fun about them in this direction is their sheer lack of selfconsciousness. Dressed in laughable clothes, they announce their hunger with an imperious cry. They roll up to strangers in their strollers, drool threading down their cheeks. Sour milk condensed in the rolls of their necks, they look about them as though they would be jealous gods, rather than babies. It is a strange calculus that results from an id without an accompanying superego.

I'm sure that in time Cleo will develop that superego - and with it, too, both a more conventional politeness and (sadly) some degree of the stage fright that runs through nearly all of us at one point or another. For now, though, let's enjoy the show: it's rare that one sees such unmediated personality. Piaf was intense, rather than tense. Babies are present as soon as they're sent.