It’s Not All Mary Poppins

Blowing my Cover

“Wuuu-wuuh! Wuh, wuh gaddagadaba. Mah-wee! Mah-wee, wuh, gadda tuck! Tuck, tuck, tuck wane! Wuh, man, man-ha, man-ee. Tuck, wah stikya ai.”

Nigel is on the very cusp of fluent speech. He has quite a few words, in fact. Individually or in pairs, his words are toddler-clear and effective. In larger groups, they’re a little more opaque.

Something has captured Nigel’s attention out the front window. I come to see what fascinates. A large moving van is parked outside the house across the street, the house which sold a while back. Oh, an activity we can both enjoy!

“Yes, I see the truck. The man has the truck. The man has a truck in the rain.”

“Hass ban? Hass ban? Hass ban? Hass dat?” His enthusiasm is adorable. I’m not snooping, I’m sharing an experience with a child.

“Yes, they have a van. What’s that? It looks like a table. The men are taking a table out of the van.”

“Table. Big table. Mrruh! Mrruh!”

“Oh, you’re right! What a lovely mirror! I wonder if they’ll put it in the hall. It has the look of a hall mirror.”

“Mrrr. Man hass mrruh. Goggy! Yady goggy!”

“You’re right! They lady has a doggie. A chocolate labrador! What a nice doggie. I wonder what his name is?”

“Goggie! Wuss goggie go?”

“The doggy went in the house with the lady. I wonder if that’s who’s moving in?”

“Wuss daddy?”

“At work, love. Oh, look, Nigel! See the chair?”


“That’s right, chair. There’s six of them, sweetie.” I like the lines of them, slim and elegant, but the colour? Never have been a fan of orange. “Let’s count the chairs! One…” Nigel’s butt bumps into me as he ducks under the couch. “Can you count the chairs, lovie?”

“Wuss Ahhma? Wuss Ahhma? Wuss Ahhma?” His voice is muffled. He’s right under there now. But what’s this? Well, with that light fixture over the dining table, maybe the orange chairs would work. That’s very clever, really.

“Wuss Ahhma? Wuss Ahhma?”

“What? Oh, Emma’s at school, love.”

“Wuss Aaah-Damn?”

“At school. Hey, Nigel, Nigel, look at the couch. More for style than comfort, that thing. Ick. Oh, and see the bed, and oh, look at that armoire. Very nice. Nigel? Nigel? Nigel?” A squeak and a bang from the kitchen. A distinctive sound – the hinged cupboard in the corner, where the crackers and cereal are kept. My joint activity has become solo.

In the mind of a toddler, snack-stalking trumps neighbour-snooping any day.

© 2006, Mary P

September 26, 2006 Posted by | Nigel, our adoring public | 10 Comments