You hit me in mine eye!

As much as we were all eagerly awaiting N’s being able to express himself with words, there have certainly been moments when I’ve wished (and still wish) that he was not quite so ‘expressive’.  Take our weekly outing to the shops (about 18 months ago) at a little centre packed full of friends, acquaintances and general members of our community.  Being unwilling to relinquish the red car trolley that we had trawled each floor to find (and eventually bribed a trolley assistant to locate), I yanked N from the trolley and was wrestling him into his car seat when my hand bumped his face (if you’ve ever had to strap a tantrumming toddler into a car seat you will understand how this happens).  Picture this – N screaming out of the car door “You hit me in mine eye!  You hit me in mine eye!”.  In a full parking lot, with many a nosy lady coming and going from their own cars.  Not only was I mortified, I was also fairly certain that someone was going to recognise us and report me for physical discipline.  I think this was the same excursion during which he saw a rather large man in a strange brown 1 -piece overall and proceeded to exclaim “Hahaha Mommy! Yook (look) at dat man!” *cue abandonment of goods and swift exit from shop.

Then there is the unbridled joy of your child being able to tell their teacher all of your family secrets.  Like the time he told her his weekend plans were to watch Showmax #goldmedalmothering.  Not to mention the start of their repeating things that are said by their parents.  The day I had to slam on brakes and heard N exclaim from the backseat something which cannot be put in print, I had to make a really quick choice between reprimanding him and allowing myself to laugh.  I did tell him that he couldn’t say such things, which he countered with “I am just being like dad”. Game. Set. Match.

2 years ago, I would never have imagined in my wildest dreams that I would wish or ask that N keep quiet.  I was so unreservedly desperate for him to speak, that I could not picture a reality in which I would have wanted him to ‘hold his piece’.  Fast forward to last week.  I was trying to concentrate on a payment or an email and I looked at N and said “My boy, I never ever thought I would say this, but can you please keep quiet just for 2 minutes?”.  My husband overheard this and was suitably and appropriately horrified. B (our nanny) and I often joke about how we were once actually concerned that N wouldn’t speak.  Isn’t that an unbelievable thing right there?  How far he has come – from his gestures and pointing, to his attempts at words and now to non-stop questions, instructions and chattering from sun-up until sun-down.  This progress is made all the sweeter, knowing how hard N has had to work to get this far.  His grit and determination can’t be taken lightly.  It makes my heart feel like bursting when we have conversations all the way to school and all the way home; when I can hear about the day’s activities and know who he played with.  Of late I have been instructed on the appropriate use of windscreen wipers, been informed as to how to properly say his full name, and been reprimanded for not slowing down at a yellow robot.  I have learnt what he wants to be when he grows up (firefighter or astronaut), been presented with shopping lists of items that are running low (like his bubble bath), guided as to how to properly organise a birthday and roped into all kinds of dialogues and role plays involving robots and LEGO men.  And every night when I tuck him into bed, he tells me he loves me.  That – that is everything.