Language is a curious thing. it developes in leaps and bounds. Tuesday was Coras big language day. She told me quite clearly "I love my Daddy Very Much." It was really cute, especially because she usually tells him she does not love him, to get him to horse around with her. Without effort, she has discovered that language is an art and a tool.
Communication is so little compared to what a two year old knows about the use and form of words. A witty girl of mine will occassionally "mis-label people". She will point to Daddy and say Mommy and vice versa, than grin when we correct her. She will giggle and tell me a flower smells poopy. She will meow to the cats in conversational tones.
Best of all, she demonstrated yesterday comprehension of a "general" word for specifics. Upon hearing me talk to Nanny about what we needed to buy at the grocery store, she interupted the list at "fresh fruit" to add her favorites. "Oranges, pease Mommy," a finger to her lips "grapes, too."
"Anything else you want?" Nanny asked. I was too busy smiling at her polite requests.
"Ananas" she said.
There are some general categories she can't quite figure out. She still calls all roundish shaped chips crackers and cookies by the generic "cookie". I'm not about to correct that one. When a ritz does what a chips ahoy is supposed to accomplish, a parent should turn a blind eye to the language issues.
Then there is the one problem I have that shows a child doesn't have to be able to say a word to epitomize it. Thanks to a curious turn of the english language, my husband turned to me one evening after our dinner was finished and Cora was pleasantly saturated with sour cream and tomato innards. "Are you gonna draw Cora a bath?" he asked.
"yes" I said, then lazily rose from the table. I noticed a curly haired flash take off toward the hallway. As I waddled down the hall, It occured to me that the curly haired flash had something blue in her hand. Interesting, I thought, there was nothing blue on the table.
Cora was in the bathroom already, but rather than stripping in her usual pre-bath celebration, she was kneeling on the floor, drawing on the bath tub with a bright blue crayon. "I draw bath!" she announced with all the pride of a true artist let loose.
Does anyone know how to clean crayon off of a bath tub? Can someone explain to my husband that I don't find it funny chasing a crayon armed literalist down the hallway after dinner?