My baby is now eleven months old, and besides screeching rather loudly and giving her version of "all done" on occasion, her interest in vocabulary is minimal. She is way too busy filling her mouth with flies and toilet paper. A deficiency, perhaps? Or just practicing making a quality spit wad, I don't know.
But one thing I am just about certain about. When her mouth opens with words flowing from it, my aspiring singing career will once again be put on the shelf. I love to sing. I have inherited my paternal grandmothers singing gene. My grandfather, who was one of the sweeter, more subtle guys, was the one who broke it to his wife, when one day after church he told her,"Maybe you shouldn't sing."
Anyway, back to my point. When my previous babies had been learning to talk, I was spending a lot of time blissfully rocking them and singing quite contentedly right in their ears. Like a dose of cold water, there came the day with each of them, when they reached up, put their sweet little hands over my mouth, and gave instruction. "Stop."
Yep, words are harsh, but you also do learn some interesting things once those little educators start telling you how it is. The explanations given for actions are sometimes quite priceless.
When my boys were about three and two, I received many of those explanations. After one particular trying evening, I had just gotten the little guy to sleep for what I had hoped was the night. I told his big brother, "Mom is going to jump in the shower. If you need anything, dad is right outside.
Well, I had enough time to get the shower on and the temp set just right before I heard knocking on the door. I opened it to find not one, but two little boys standing there looking at me.
"I don't know what happened, but I think all the loud roaring noises from the North Pole woke him up." Good one, and good-bye shower.
Then one day, they had been playing upstairs and when I decided to go check on them, the sight that greeted me probably didn't do good things to the blood pressure. The humidifier was taken apart and water was puddling all over the hallway. I could feel a gasket about to blow and wasn't even about to ask for an explanation on this one. Big brother decided to give one anyway. "We were baptizing."
Around the corner comes little brother dripping wet. How can you even yell at that?
When my husbands heifer gave birth to her first calf, my eldest who was about six at the time, was the first who found it and went to check it out. He came back in the house and informed me, "It's a bull."
"Oh, really? And how do you know that?"
" Because it has curly hair on its forehead." I guess it was no surprise to me when my husband came home and announced the new calf was a bull.
There have been times when explanations have been strangely silent or missing completely. This comes with "faulty" memories of otherwise intelligent children.
The weather had been growing colder for some time when we decided to break down and finally order some oil for the winter. The oil man happily took our check and went on his way. The hubby turned on all the necessary gizmos and gadgets while I waited upstairs to feel the first blast of blessed heat coming into the place. Strangely, nothing happened so I finally went down to see what the hold up was. He was sitting beside the furnace with a puzzled look on his face and said, "Man, it almost seems like there is water mixed in this stuff. After several hours of tinkering and draining chalky white gunk, he decided to go find his sons. They, of course had no idea how vast amounts of water could have ever found its way into the oil tank. Little by little, bits and pieces of memory came back. "Maybe" they were playing with the hose in the summer. "Maybe" they might have played oil man with the hose. "Maybe" was the word of the day, with details remaining rather sketchy.
When little sister came along, I figured girls would be a different story, but she too has given some rather "reasonable" explanations for her actions. Like crawling into mom and dads bed two minutes after lights out because she "had a scary dream." Nothing fishy with that one, like maybe you should actually fall asleep before you claim these grand dreams. And she suddenly decided she can no longer eat cheerios "because them have holes in 'em." Like someone pointed out to me, doughnuts have holes too, and she doesn't seem to have a problem with that. Definitely "holes" popping up in that info, little darling.
Yep, lot's of lip smacking, eyelash fluttering, and "becausing" from the girl section too. Another year or two of them putting their heads together might bring some stressful moments to this house, but I'm hoping more for comic relief. And so help me if they turn out to be self baptizing oil men farmers who hear noises from the Northpole.