Scene 1: Arianna, nearing age two, calls a "hat" an "ass." She sees me, her father, or her sister put on a hat, and screams out, "ass, ass!" Thank you, little darling, for learning to mispronounce this word, despite our persistent efforts at correcting you. Thank you for using, practically daily, a word that I prefer NOT to say, and double thanks for taking the time, as we go on our walks, to point to others with hats on their heads and shout out "ass." Your excited tone and avidity at pointing this feature out, has seriously transformed our daily walks.
You cannot even fathom the joy it brings me to see people, who moments before, were smiling at you, realign those smiles into expressions of, to express it politely, extreme disbelief. People who then give me the old glare with that bonus air of suspicion--what are you teaching that innocent child?!! In Arianna's defense, though I wish she'd learn "hat" and spare me the stares, I must say that perhaps we do look a bit strange when we place these things on our heads, and this is why you, little one, vehemently refuse to wear your own. I foresee an earache in the near future.
Scene 2: Yes. It's Arianna... again. The little Arianna, who is not yet keen on the consonant "t". I'll have to keep working on that with her. Here's part one: She's sitting in her high-chair when she glances out the window, and sees a "cat". "Cack, cack!" she exclaims. "Do you mean cat? Cat?" I ask. "Bravo," she says, applauding both herself, for her brilliance, and I suppose me, for understanding her intention. That's a good moment, and I like those. A lot. The bad moment occurs hours later, and in public, since young children have an innate sense of timing: "cack" loses the "a" and gains an "o" in its stead. "Cack" transforms to "cock."
So there I am, strolling my little want-to-be toddler along the streets of our neighborhood in Washington, DC, and there, on the street, everyone nearby gets to hear her lovely little voice spit out the word "cock." Okay, and this time it wasn't even a cat that she had seen, but a squirrel--we have lots of those, so she said her word a lot. Arianna does not distinguish between cat and squirrel... they both have tails and run. Thankfully, she does distinguish between the cat and the dog, though it sounds like she's saying "duke." But her word for cat, well, let's just say that it's another one of those moments where I dip my head down, and wish I were wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
Please little one, learn to add "T" to your verbal repository.
Scene 3: No, it's not the little one. This time it's my seven-year-old. She's one who likes to rhyme, and this she does, seemingly full-time. As she was getting dressed for the day, here's what she had to say: "Itchy-witchy, Itchy-twitchy, Itchy-bitchy." Then she smiled and cocked her head at me, hoping to see me smile with glee. Instead she got a "What?!" whose tone warned her that her rhyming had put her in a rut. She repeated her rhyme very quickly, her pretty little face beginning to look sickly.
Well, naturally, first I had to ascertain if she even knew what she had said, and with great relief I learned she had no idea what the word meant. I explained the literal meaning of the word, and then informed her that is was both insulting and vulgar to say, that people use this word to hurt, smear or betray. My speech left her pretty face looking ashen. She had never known of the word "b*itch", only that it rhymed with itch and twitch! Have to say that I'm grateful for that, though I'm well aware that as she gets older her knowledge of words and desire to use them will get bolder.
Scene 4: (Coming later today).
No comments:
Post a Comment