Thursday, July 07, 2005
To Peach His Own
After months of nouns, Boo has recently elevated his linguistic artistry. The verb section seems to have powered up in his brain, sending forth a slew of actions and commands: jump, drink, slide, climb, move, push, open, stop, go, help, pet, sweep, rock. Boo's pronunciation is still sufficiently garbled that I sometimes find myself struggling to decipher a new word. Luckily for us both, he has an eager translator in the person of Max. On the occasion when Max, too, is stumped, he usually offers an entertaining guess, like "Beeshoe means peanut butter in Spanish."
The thrill of hearing Boo animate the many objects in his universe has been tempered by an ominous development: his heady infatuation with the word "no." Perhaps I could bear up to this phase of negativity with more grace and good humor were it not for the fingernails-on-chalkboard whine with which every "no" is delivered. After four days of rejections and dismissals, I long to hear Boo's inimitable brand of "yes." It's a twangy cross between "hee-ya" and "yeow," a sound that might have sprung straight from a cattle ranch bunkhouse. I miss that happy little cowboy.
I had my first inkling that Boo might grow up to sound like a Texan several months ago, as we were examining a small book about words that start with the letter "k." Boo spotted a kite and said confidently, "Cat." After he'd repeated this several times, I realized that he wasn't confused, or suffering from poor vision, or free-associating to a memory of a cat interrupting his first kite-flying adventure. He was saying "kite," as any East Texas native would have recognized instantly. If I can suppress my own horror at the prospect of raising a son who might say "nucular," Boo's accent could be good for a lot of laughs.
I wish I had a peach tree in my backyard (or in my neighbor's...), but perhaps the next best thing is to pass the Fairfield peach truck each time we visit the ranch from June through August. On Sunday we stopped to buy a bushel. Because the dogs occupy the back of the suburban, the peaches traveled in the back seat between the boys. There was just one problem: Boo couldn't keep his eager fingers out of the box. Each time I heard Boo rattling around, I admonished him, but there was little I could do from the driver's seat. Max, who fancies himself as a member of the management team, tried to contain his brother's damage, and Boo responded with persistent demands. In a plaintive voice, he begged: "Peach! Peach! Want peach!" But if you'd been listening, you surely would have heard these strange words:
"Paich! Paich! Wont paich!"
He wasn't kidding. By the time we returned home, Boo had finished three freestones and sampled as many more, leaving "teeth tracks" in his wake.
The thrill of hearing Boo animate the many objects in his universe has been tempered by an ominous development: his heady infatuation with the word "no." Perhaps I could bear up to this phase of negativity with more grace and good humor were it not for the fingernails-on-chalkboard whine with which every "no" is delivered. After four days of rejections and dismissals, I long to hear Boo's inimitable brand of "yes." It's a twangy cross between "hee-ya" and "yeow," a sound that might have sprung straight from a cattle ranch bunkhouse. I miss that happy little cowboy.
I had my first inkling that Boo might grow up to sound like a Texan several months ago, as we were examining a small book about words that start with the letter "k." Boo spotted a kite and said confidently, "Cat." After he'd repeated this several times, I realized that he wasn't confused, or suffering from poor vision, or free-associating to a memory of a cat interrupting his first kite-flying adventure. He was saying "kite," as any East Texas native would have recognized instantly. If I can suppress my own horror at the prospect of raising a son who might say "nucular," Boo's accent could be good for a lot of laughs.
I wish I had a peach tree in my backyard (or in my neighbor's...), but perhaps the next best thing is to pass the Fairfield peach truck each time we visit the ranch from June through August. On Sunday we stopped to buy a bushel. Because the dogs occupy the back of the suburban, the peaches traveled in the back seat between the boys. There was just one problem: Boo couldn't keep his eager fingers out of the box. Each time I heard Boo rattling around, I admonished him, but there was little I could do from the driver's seat. Max, who fancies himself as a member of the management team, tried to contain his brother's damage, and Boo responded with persistent demands. In a plaintive voice, he begged: "Peach! Peach! Want peach!" But if you'd been listening, you surely would have heard these strange words:
"Paich! Paich! Wont paich!"
He wasn't kidding. By the time we returned home, Boo had finished three freestones and sampled as many more, leaving "teeth tracks" in his wake.
2 Comments:
"Paich! Paich! Wont paich!"
Isn't that what Nolan Ryan said when he retired?
Those Texas accents are for us Yankee ears to distinguish...I thought you(all) called the thing that flies on the end of a string a Kai-yite.
It's going to be the height of Washington "paich" season when you're here. What fun that will be!
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