Friday, January 15, 2010

One--Think, Two--Speak

Language is exploding out of my son. It's like he's been storing up ideas and he finally has the vocabulary to let them out. And his language evolves so quickly, that I often find I'm missing something much sooner than I expected.

He used to call himself "Est," which I loved. He called himself "Est" for a long time; "Est doot" [Westley do it] was a favorite phrase of mine, but it's disappeared. "I can doot," is the new norm, and even sometimes, "I do it myself." Plain as day. And he's started to say his name, "Wezzy." Which is just not as good as "Est" in my book.


He begins his day repeating stories and songs, and often ends it by recounting the day's events. Usually, it's wonderful. It means he can "read" a favorite book to himself (which helps him fall asleep--hallelujah). It's hard at the end of the day, when we've had a hard day, and maybe--just maybe--I've lost my temper and yelled at him.

"Mom-mee came inna door. Said, 'Stop it, Wezzey!'"

At first I think, Oh, fuck. He remembers that. And then I mentally scold myself. I remember it; why shouldn't he? It was only a few hours ago. And it sucked pretty hard.

"That's right," I tell him. "And it was not okay for me to yell at you like that."

He looks up at me with enormous, thoughtful blue eyes. "No," he says.


Instruments are a frequent topic of conversation. Westley loves to make lists, and instruments are perfect for this; he can name well over a dozen instruments by sight and sound, and he also has quite an instrument collection. He is desperately in love with music, so every time we see a kazoo or toy drum at resale, it's hard to resist. Westley would love to own some real instruments, but in the meantime, the slide whistle is a trombone, the flutophone plays the role of clarinet. He often takes roll, presumably to make sure he doesn't leave any of them out of whatever secret composition he's working on:
"I get cymbs!"

"Okay, monkey. We'll get your crash cymbals. I think they're in the playroom."

"Get my crash cymbs! And my trump [trumpet]! And my trombone, and my flute, and my carolnet [clarinet], and my pran-pran [piano], and my tee-tog [guitar], and my drums!"
He's a little one-man band, if only in his mind.


I was so, so glad when he stopped saying "girl" as "gwuh." That one drove me absolutely crazy; it was fingernails-on-chalkboard annoying for some reason. But I'm not supposed to say that.

As his mother, I'm supposed to think his idiosyncratic language is awesome and adorable. And for the most part, I do. I would bathe in its cuteness if I could! "Instruments" comes out "imps," which I love. "All finched" for "all finished" is great (it makes me think of sweet little birds). He expresses love by telling you that you and he are "best friends," and that kicks my ass with its adorableness.

But "gwuh" can fuck right off.


Westley: I hit Dada witta crash cymbs!

Rob: Why would would want to hit Daddy with crash cymbals?

Westley: I'm twooo!


1 comment:

Amber, The Unlikely Mama said...

I just love baby talk. I didn't always, but it began when my niece was learning to talk and started calling Peter "Peeper". Was soooooooooo cute. I was truly sad when she learned to say his name the right way :-)