Little Miss Echo

Rory, little Rory, is not so little any more. From being a solemn watcher from the sidelines, he has become far more engaged. Not that he can’t play happily alone for long stretches, but he now knows how to interact — and he enjoys it. His language has taken a ginormous leap forward, too, which undoubtedly assists (or perhaps originates) his social efforts. He has turned from my wide-eyed Silent Boy into Word Boy. He chatters, chatters, chatters. Not a steady, unceasing narration of his life (which, I tell you now, in the hands of the right child, can drive you INSANE), but a cheerful conversation whenever he has your attention. He’s not just talking to make noise, he’s actually seeking the answers.

And, since he has a curious mind, he asks a LOT of questions. I don’t mind. I like answering the questions of a genuinely curious child.

“Mary, where are we going today?”
“We’re going to the park.”

“Is there snack at play group?”
“No. Some playgroups give you snacks, but not this one. That is why I am making a snack for us to bring.”

“Does Daniel have a green jacket?”
“Today Daniel has a black jacket, but you’re right. Yesterday, he had a green jacket, didn’t he?”

It’s not quite incessant, but Rory’s questions provide a steady thread through my day. And as I say, I don’t mind. This week, however, Grace has joined in, and Grace…

now, I want you to understand that I love Grace dearly. She is gentle, she is sweet, she has a nice disposition, and she is growing into a very pretty girl, to boot. (This despite the constant drizzle of drool suspended from her lower lip, even.) But — and I realize it’s early to make this judgment, and I’ve been wrong before (though not often) — but with all those caveats and cautions acknowledged, my gut feeling is that Grace…

isn’t the brightest crayon in the box.

And we can’t all be, can we? In fact, most of us aren’t the brightest.

Besides, I’ve been wrong before! I recall one young man who I was convinced was just a little sluggish, mentally. His dad agreed. Not that we spoke of it directly, but one day, dad was watching his son do something or other, shook his head and ruefully commented with a loving smile, “You’ll never be a rocket scientist, son.”

And you know what? He’s about eleven now, and he’s BRILLIANT. So there. What he isn’t, is verbal. To this day, he’s a quiet child to whom words come slowly. Give him numbers, give him science, give him engineering, and just step back for the brilliance. He’s very, very, very, very bright. He could feasibly be a rocket scientist, this boy. But he’s not brilliant with the words, and so much of our evaluation of very small children is, whether we’re aware of it or not, a judgment of their verbal skill.

So, when I begin to suspect a child isn’t too bright, I keep it to myself for any number of very good reasons, not the least of which is that I could very well be wrong.

But you guys don’t know me, and you guys don’t know Grace, and to you, my little collection of nameless, faceless friendly internet strangers, I will confess my suspicion that Grace is not going to burn up the road intellectually.

And that’s okay. We can’t all be rocket scientists, and the world only needs so many brain surgeons. Even if my gut is right on this one, she’ll have a happy, productive, fulfilled life, doing whatever suits her best.

If she lives that long.

Because lately, when Rory asks his question, Grace will wait quietly and politely — because Grace is generally a quiet and polite girl — she will wait, I say, until Rory has asked, and I have fully answered the question, and then…

she will ask it again. Word for word. Every.Single.Time.

Rory: Where are the muffins, Mary?
Mary: They’re still in the oven. We can take them out when the timer goes “beep!”
Grace: Where are the muffins, Mary?

Rory: Are we going to the park?
Mary: Yes, we are.
Grace: Are we going to the park?

Rory: Daniel is coming today?
Mary: No, he will be here tomorrow. Today his gramma and grampa are visiting.
Grace: Daniel is coming today?

All. Day. Long… Every. Single. Question.

For a while I was answering her, too, thinking she just hadn’t heard, but too often she was right beside Rory when I answered, so that couldn’t be it. Now I’ve taken to saying, “You know whether he’s coming, Grace. I just told Rory. Is Daniel coming today?”

I get the long, steady stare from those beautiful blue eyes, the drop of drool pooling on that pretty pink lower lip.

“Can you tell me? Is Daniel coming today, Grace?”

Stare.
Stare.
Stare.

“Is Daniel coming today, Rory?”
“No, he’s wif his gramma and grampa.”
“That’s right. He’s at home, visiting gramma and grampa. Is Daniel coming today, Grace?”

Stare.

“He’s at…” I prompt.

Blink. “He’s at…”

Mary: “hooome, visiting…”

Grace: “hooome, visiting…

Mary: Waits.

Grace: Stares.

Mary: Waits.

Grace: Stares.

Mary: Waits.

Grace: Stares. Blinks. “At home, visiting… gramma and grampa!”

Mary: That’s right! Daniel is at home today, visiting gramma and grampa, just like I told Rory.

All.Day.Long.

And that is why sometimes, when Grace mindlessly echoes Rory’s question, instead of getting her to focus on the answer that was given, instead of going through that long, drawn-out process of winkling from her mind the information that’s ALREADY THERE… I totally ignore her. La la la, I didn’t hear that! And now I think I need to be in another room, right now!!

For his part, Rory also totally ignores her. He doesn’t seem to register the echo, not in the slightest. Until…

Rory: Where is my yellow loader truck?
Mary: It is in the bucket of the stroller, so we can take it to the park this morning.
Grace: Where is my yellow loader truck?
Rory: IT’S NOT YOUR LOADER!!! IS MINE!!!
Grace: Stare. Stare. Stare. Drool.
Grace: [face crumpling]
Grace: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!

Sigh…

In which Mary discovers and unexpected thinness of skin

“Oh, my GOD!”

There was a time in my life when that phrase was offensive to me. It was taking the lord’s name in vain, invoking deity in a meaningless, frivolous way. Even though I no longer have that response, I am still far more likely to say, “Oh, good lord!” (Yes, I am aware those two are essentially identical, but the tweak in semantics works for me. Make of that what you will.)

“Oh! My! GOD!”

Though it has been known to drop from my lips, I generally avoid it for a few reasons: out of habit, out of respect for those whom it does offend, and because these days it’s so much the purview of adolescent girls — OMG! OMG!! OMGGGGG!!!!! — at their most shrieky and annoying.

So I have a pretty muted response to it, all in all. Except, I’ve just this moment discovered, when it is being broadcast from the mouths of babes.

Rory, at the front of the stroller, takes a deep breath.

“Oh. My. GOD!!” he declares, in tones of such rich satisfaction that the others are driven to echo. Grace and Jazz pick up the mantra, and now “Oh! My! GOD!!!” is bouncing around the stroller, from tot to tot, and across the road and up the street and round the city and through the province… “Oh. My. GOOoooooDDDD!”

I’m feeling a smidge self-conscious, is what I’m saying.

Rory takes a breath to start the next call-and-response. “Oh, My, G–” Before he can finish, I thrust a word into the air. “GOODNESS!” He picks it up obligingly.

“Oh, My, Goo’ness!” Grace and Jazz pick up the refrain, and I relax. Because, really. Four kids screeching irreverences up and down the street. Where did they learn that? people will wonder. Probably from that caregiver! people will assume. Why else would all those kids from different families be saying the same thing? Only stands to reason. That caregiver who looks so mild. Bet she’s just awful behind closed doors, screaming and yelling, and “oh-my-god-you-kids!”-ing.

And besides. It just tweaks those long-ago lessons. Adults can say that, doesn’t bother me at all. Little kids? It feels wrong, hell, it fells borderline offensive. Babies should not be saying this. I’m a little surprised by my response, frankly. Sunday School is more deeply ingrained in my psyche than I realized. (Train up a child, and all that. Seems I’m a case in point.) 😀

“Oh, my goo’ness!”

Phew.

“Oh, my GOO’NESS!”

It’s kind of cute, really.

“Oh! My! GOD!!!”

Damn.

So much for bait-and-switch. What we need is a whole different distractor. Conversation about the scenery is ineffective. Questions about their activities similarly so. How about…

“I like to eat, eat, eat…”

Grace LOVES this song! LOVES.IT.

“Appoos and ‘nanaaaaas!”

And the others join in, “I yike to eat, eat, eat, appools and ananas.”

And this one? It sticks.

Phew.

First Words

“Oh-ee-oh-ee-oh!”
“No, I think it’s more ‘Oreo-eo-eo’.”
“Or maybe ‘Oh-yo-yo-yo-yo’?”

“Yeah, that’s it. ‘Oh-yo-yo’.”

“Oh-yo-yo!”

Rory, man of few words, has learned to say “Romeo”.

Sort of.

What you hear…

…is not necessarily what he said.

“I got a Kwissmass twee!” Noah looks up at Emma, his blue eyes wide and sincere. (Noah is king of Sweetly Sincere.)

“You’ve got a Kwissmass twee?” Emma echoes. Noah frowns.

“No. I got a Kuh-WWWWWWIssmass tuh-WWWWWWWee.”

“Oooooh.” Emma has too much fun with this. She’s going to make a kick-ass mother some day. (Or maybe that’s not a good adjective, in the context?) “You’ve got a Chrrrrrristmas trrrrrree.”

“Dat’s wite.”

Say what?

“A gang yetwa go.”
(I can’t let you go.)

I gaga hoeyawn.
(I have to hold on.)

William was a pretty quiet little dude for the first few weeks here.

“You gwanga paya my gwanegwak?”
(You want to play with my train track?)

Once he begain to speak in any quantity, it quickly became apparent that the boy is in need of speech therapy. It’s taken me a couple of weeks to be able to understand the 70% of his utterances I’m pretty sure I’m getting.

“Ungaya woe!”
(Look out below!)

I am not always sure of my translations.

“Wa gum make um why.”
(I [or maybe ‘we’] are going to [or maybe ‘can’] make some pie.)

I’m giving it to the end of the second full week of school before his parents have received some sort of communication from his teacher on this. Give the poor woman a chance to sort out who those small bodies in her class are before worrying about the niceties of their pronounciation. I’m sure she’ll get there.

(Had William been in my care all along, I’d have dealt with this long since, but since he’s only been with me a few weeks, I’m content to stay back and let his teacher, who will be dealing with him over a longer timeframe than me, approach the issue. However, if it hasn’t been addressed by Thanksgiving — mid-October — I will talk to his parents.)

William is pretty cooperative with my corrections. With such wide-ranging mispronounciations, I’ve arbitrarily decided to start with one: the initial ‘s’. (You’ve got to start somewhere, right? If I corrected every mispronounciation to fall from the poor boy’s lips, he’d never get to say anything.)

Tyler was fascinated as we passed by the tennis class at the local outdoor courts.

“Do you think you’ll play tennis one day, Tyler?”

“Yeah. Tennis.” The kids is obviously just humouring me. He’s distracted, still staring at the game.

“Because it’s a certainty you’ll be playing soccer.” Tyler’s father is Serbian, and (I get the strong impression this pretty much goes without saying for a Serb) an enthusiastic soccer player and watcher. I just can’t see his kids not playing, at least for a few years.

“Soccer! Yeah!” No humouring now. The boy is EXCITED!!! Yes, the social conditioning has indeed begun. This child going to play — and he’s going to love it.

William pops into the conversation. “Ah gway wokka.”

“Sssssssssoccer.” I enunciate. “You play ssssssssoccer.”

“Yeah,” says the co-operative William. “An’ gasssssssssgahgawl.” (Basketball)

He’s got a ways to go….

Lyrical? Or…

Four little children thunder trip around my livingroom, arms a-flapping.

“I’m a butterfly!” Anna floats by. Thunderously. Loudest butterfly I’ve ever seen, but there you have it. Imagination conquers all.

“I’m a dragon!” Emily zips past, closely followed by,

“Boo-die! Boo-die!” a small, elephantine Birdie, aka Noah, closely followed by a mute but equally thunderful flying critter, Tyler. And where is Timmy?

Here he is!

“Horsie-bat! I’m a horsie-bat!”

Which could be a cute and quirky way of expressing ‘pegasus’, something he’s seen in a book somewhere, for which he doesn’t have the word. Creative, indeed. Lyrical, even.

(No, he hasn’t been reading this book. nor about the horse-shoe bat. I asked his mother.)

Or he could mean just exactly what he said: “Horsie-bat.”

Which is kinda weird, you know?

And knowing Timmy, I’m leaning to that interpretation.

He says, she says

“Hi!”

“Hello, Noah. How are you this morning?”

“Hi!”

The husband comes downstairs.

“Hi!”

“Hi, there, little guy.”

“Hi!”

Anna is dropped off.

“Hi!”

“Hi, Baby Noah! I got my pink snowpants on because my black ones got all dirty in the park last night. Now I have pink snowpants on, and my boots have pink and black, too. See my pink snowpants, Baby Noah? You have black snowpants llike my other ones, but today I am wearing pink snowpants.”

“Hi!”

The dog wanders by.

“Hi! Dah! Hi! Dah! Dah!”

Emily is dropped off.

“Hi!”

“Hi, Baby Noah. Mary, are we going to do a craft today? I didn’t do a craft yesterday and I got sad last night because I wanted to do a craft, and daddy said to ask if maybe we would do a craft today. Maybe we could use the magazines and the glue sticks again today, so I could make a craft when I didn’t make one the other day?”

Timmy is dropped off.

“Hi!”

“Hi, Baby Noah. Mary, I gots a truck, and I can share it.”

The husband starts to put his boots on.

“Hi! Hi!”

“Hello, Noah.”

“Hi!”

“I did that already, buddy.”

“Remember this stage?” I grin at him.

“Oh, yeah. When you only have three words in your vocabulary, you have to work them hard. Some kids are like that.”

“The b–”

“Whereas the girr-uls,” my sweetie intones, his voice comicly rueful, “they get their words in flurries.”

Lyrical only goes so far

“Look, Mary! The moon is out!”

It is in fact the sun, so heavily shrouded by clouds and falling snow that its brilliance is muted to a mellow white glow. It could well be the moon. I start to say as much, but Anna is still talking.

“The moon is my friend. The moon likes me, because I was born on a full moon.”

Anna has obviously heard the story of her birth night many times. It is part of her personal mythology. “I like the moon, and the moon likes me, because I am a moon-girl.”

She is. Pale and fair, though her beauty radiates life; none of the moon’s delicacy. She’s also sun and storm, blustery gale and spring zephyr. All seasons is our lyrical Anna.

“When the moon sees me, it is happy because I am his moon-girl.” And then, in quicksilver Anna style, she tips her face skyward, chin up, rosy cheeks a platform for the falling snow. Until she opens her mouth.

“I’m catching snowflakes with my mouth! I’m eating the snowflakes!”

“What do they taste like?” I ask, curious. What do snowflakes taste like, to this child of moods and passions, romance and myth?

She crinkles her face and grins at me. Grin grows into a smoky-deep chortle, then a full-fledged belly laugh, rising from her very boots.

“They taste like snowflakes, of course!”