The other day Sam announced his intention to wear shoes rather than boots when we took the dog out for a morning walk. He started his sentence with the phrase "Speaking of feet...", which was funny. Because we weren't. We were speaking of breakfast. I wondered if I'd used those words the night before, when we were playing foot puppets in front of his bedroom mirror, or if he adopted the line more consciously, in imitation of his Daddy, who often facetiously pretends he's not changing the tack of a conversation when he has something unrelated to say.
In any event, the line made me smile at the way Sam's vocabulary and facility with language stretches in surprising directions by the day. It's always been a source of fascination. I recall trying to keep a running list of the many dozens of words he was using by the time he turned 2, but I couldn't keep up. I was amazed at how this word sponge drew in the language around him and squelched it back out in amusing variations: trutch for truck, Cargo for Carter, Treechi for Tracey (and, more enduringly, Treechi Juice for a glass of wine). I chuckle at the memory of his first sentences: the reverent exhalation of "ohhhh, dat's hotTT" as he leaned over a steaming teacup, an echo of his mother's routine caution against his curiosity; and the perplexed and pleading "Door is GUCK!", his taut body hanging from the apartment doorknob preventing his escape into the larger world of the second floor hallway.
More recently, I've been chagrined by the oh-so-boyish context of some of his newer words. "The frog isn't QUITE dead yet, so the buzzard isn't IN-TRIST-ed in eating him." Or "My hand isn't ACK-chewally cut right off; it's in my sleeve. See?" But it's not all death and dismemberment. He's also picked up the gracious "As you wish" from The Princess Bride. That's pleasant. So is his over-the-top enthusiasm (shades of teacher-speak) when he congratulates me for such feats as knowing where his Batman mask is at the moment: "You're RIGHT, Mommy! GOOD WORK!" And Tracey reports that he and Carter were playing Repair Man with a new flashlight today, and they approached her to ask politely "Excuse me, young lady; where is your furnace?" Perhaps this civilized role playing will spell the end of the little boy poo talk, in which any sentence seemingly benefits from the random substitution of the word "poo." Where even the tenderly bestowed "sweet dreams" is apt to be met with a gleefully whispered "sweet poo!"
Of course, when that phase is over, I'll miss it. Just as I miss some of the nonsense words that are fading out of his lexicon. It's been a while since Sam last called someone a kunck or a koopy-shappy. And I'll miss the lapses in his pronunciation: already the V has found its way in (no more "bam-pires") and so has the SP (so the fun line in Chattanooga Choo Choo -- "I've got my fare, and just a trifle to FARE" -- has lost its Sam charm; he can say "spare...") . The L has been tougher for him, but too soon the constant request to "Wookit at me" will sound a wot different than it does right now.
But with each loss there are a multitude of fresh new phrases to delight in and as many amusing conversations. Just an hour ago, Daddy washed a Granny Smith apple for Sam, explaining that he wanted to get the wax off of it. Sam hesitantly asked for clarification: "ummm, ear wax?" He only knew the one definition of the word. Such exchanges continue to enrich our family culture, to colour the private language of our daily lives. And he's still just three. Speaking of feet, I have cupcakes to make for the pre-school celebration of Sam's birthday. Good night; sweet poo.
In any event, the line made me smile at the way Sam's vocabulary and facility with language stretches in surprising directions by the day. It's always been a source of fascination. I recall trying to keep a running list of the many dozens of words he was using by the time he turned 2, but I couldn't keep up. I was amazed at how this word sponge drew in the language around him and squelched it back out in amusing variations: trutch for truck, Cargo for Carter, Treechi for Tracey (and, more enduringly, Treechi Juice for a glass of wine). I chuckle at the memory of his first sentences: the reverent exhalation of "ohhhh, dat's hotTT" as he leaned over a steaming teacup, an echo of his mother's routine caution against his curiosity; and the perplexed and pleading "Door is GUCK!", his taut body hanging from the apartment doorknob preventing his escape into the larger world of the second floor hallway.
More recently, I've been chagrined by the oh-so-boyish context of some of his newer words. "The frog isn't QUITE dead yet, so the buzzard isn't IN-TRIST-ed in eating him." Or "My hand isn't ACK-chewally cut right off; it's in my sleeve. See?" But it's not all death and dismemberment. He's also picked up the gracious "As you wish" from The Princess Bride. That's pleasant. So is his over-the-top enthusiasm (shades of teacher-speak) when he congratulates me for such feats as knowing where his Batman mask is at the moment: "You're RIGHT, Mommy! GOOD WORK!" And Tracey reports that he and Carter were playing Repair Man with a new flashlight today, and they approached her to ask politely "Excuse me, young lady; where is your furnace?" Perhaps this civilized role playing will spell the end of the little boy poo talk, in which any sentence seemingly benefits from the random substitution of the word "poo." Where even the tenderly bestowed "sweet dreams" is apt to be met with a gleefully whispered "sweet poo!"
Of course, when that phase is over, I'll miss it. Just as I miss some of the nonsense words that are fading out of his lexicon. It's been a while since Sam last called someone a kunck or a koopy-shappy. And I'll miss the lapses in his pronunciation: already the V has found its way in (no more "bam-pires") and so has the SP (so the fun line in Chattanooga Choo Choo -- "I've got my fare, and just a trifle to FARE" -- has lost its Sam charm; he can say "spare...") . The L has been tougher for him, but too soon the constant request to "Wookit at me" will sound a wot different than it does right now.
But with each loss there are a multitude of fresh new phrases to delight in and as many amusing conversations. Just an hour ago, Daddy washed a Granny Smith apple for Sam, explaining that he wanted to get the wax off of it. Sam hesitantly asked for clarification: "ummm, ear wax?" He only knew the one definition of the word. Such exchanges continue to enrich our family culture, to colour the private language of our daily lives. And he's still just three. Speaking of feet, I have cupcakes to make for the pre-school celebration of Sam's birthday. Good night; sweet poo.
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