Okay, I’ll admit I’m intrigued by investigations that attempt to prove things the rest of us simply take for granted. Things that seem so obvious, that I wonder why they ever extracted them from the background for analysis. When you live in a forest, why would you single out a tree?
Do babies do better when they are loved? I can’t even imagine the need to ask that question, but I suppose we only see the world through the filter of the prevailing ethos of our society. It was not so very long ago, for example, that the psychologist Harry Harlow devised an experiment that, although cruel to contemporary eyes, was an honest attempt to explore what it is that infants need. He separated infant monkeys from their mothers and placed them in isolation in little cages. He then gave them a choice between a metal dummy holding a bottle of milk, or a soft, fuzzy cloth dummy without milk. And, no surprise, the babies chose the soft cloth dummy so they could cling to it. A mother is more than a source of food –much more.
An article in the BBC news last year caught my eye. It posited ‘[…]that babies need to feel safe, secure and loved for brain connections to be properly formed to enable them to learn effectively.’ http://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-38002105
This was suggested by a study from Cambridge University in England that utilized brain scans. The researchers scanned the brains of babies and their mothers while the two were interacting in learning activities. ‘The early indications are that when the brain waves of mothers and babies are out of sync, the babies learn less well. But when the two sets of brainwaves are in tune they seem to learn more effectively. Dr Victoria Leong, who is leading the research, has discovered that babies learn well when their mums speak to them in a soothing sing-song voice which she calls “motherese”. Dr Leong’s research shows that nursery rhymes are a particularly good way for the mums in her study to get in sync with their babies.’
Fascinating, but taking it even further, ‘[…] babies respond better when there is prolonged eye contact. Mums who sang nursery rhymes looking directly at their babies held their attention significantly better than those who gazed away, even occasionally.’
I recognize how important it might seem to subject the intuitively obvious to some form of scientific scrutiny –just in case, as it were- and I am all for it. Who would dare question what is plain to see and even easier to hear every day in my waiting room? Certainly not me. But sometimes I am, well, surprised at the venue.
I first met Janice in the delivery suite late one night when I was the obstetrician on call. The midwife was concerned about the progress of labour and had asked me to consult on her client. After examining Janice, I had reassured them both and counselled patience and then, with smiles all around, had left to attend to other matters. The midwife later informed me that she delivered a healthy baby boy only a few minutes after I’d left, and so I assumed I’d probably never see Janice again.
So I was surprised when, a month or so later, Janice showed up in my waiting room. At first I didn’t recognize her, but she was singing to her baby and the voice sounded familiar. It’s funny how some things seem inextricably linked to people –a mannerism for one, or a facial expression for another… For Janice, it was undoubtedly her voice. As a small, even petite, woman, I suppose my expectation would be for her sound to match –thin, soft, fragile, perhaps- but like the Pacific wren, the volume far exceeded the source. As did the duration and enthusiasm with which she serenaded her infant. In fact I stood, in thrall, just behind the front desk, not wanting to interrupt her song by inviting her into my office.
Eventually, and not without some concern about interfering with the obvious bonding process, but seeing the baby snuggled contentedly in her arms with his eyes closed, I decided to intervene.
“Janice,” I said, walking over to where she was sitting, and the baby seemed to stir.
She knifed me with her eyes, and a finger flew to her lips to caution me to be silent. She wound down the nursery rhyme slowly and deliberately, all the while gazing intently at her sleeping baby. She seemed to be assessing his breathing pattern and only when she had decided that it accorded with her expectations did she rise and follow me into my office down the hall. I could tell by her subsequent shrug that she hadn’t meant to be rude, or to keep me waiting, but was merely trying to stay in sync with her sleeping infant. That, of course, was fine with me –it’s hard to talk with a patient when her baby is crying.
She settled in a chair by my desk almost by brail; she was so intent on her baby, her eyes never left his face. “I’ve just fed him,” she explained with a smile that only caressed the infant, so I’m not sure whether I was supposed to share. “I think he’ll sleep now,” she added with another misdirected smile.
I decided to respond with a smile of my own, this one directed at Janice, however –a sort of ‘teach by example’, I suppose.
But before it even reached her, the baby opened his eyes and stared quietly at his mother, contentment written across his face like a tattoo. It immediately galvanized her into action, however, and she began to sing another nursery rhyme and rock him in her arms. He obviously enjoyed it and stared lovingly into her eyes as if there were no other reality. No other world. He seemed to be spellbound by the endlessly repeated ‘Baa baa black sheep’ song although after a few minutes, I have to say I became more interested in the rhythmic, hypnotic nodding of her head and felt myself occasionally fighting to focus my eyes.
I began to wonder what the end point of her singing would be. The baby seemed content, he wasn’t crying, or squirming and yet on and on she sang. I tried a few times, unsuccessfully, to ask her why she had come to visit me in the office; the midwife usually follows her clients post-partum unless there is a problem. But each time I spoke, the baby would open his eyes, and Janice would risk a quick glare at me and resume rocking him with yet another song.
Finally, she stood up and looked at me with an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, doctor,” she said, heading for the door. “I just can’t seem to settle him today… I’ll have to make another appointment,” she added before launching into ‘Three Blind Mice.’
As she disappeared down the hall, and the song faded into the distance, I realized I never did discover why she’d been sent to see me. But I felt grateful for that final smile, however. Sometimes it’s the little things that matter…