We're Talking
With Ned
by
Jeff Stimpson
Alex
likes Hebrew Nationals for dinner these days. So does Ned, as anyone
would. Problem is, Ned also likes and eats a lot of other stuff, and
we don't necessarily want him eating three hot dogs for dinner. So
in the kit hen Jill cooked the hot dogs, but had to tell Ned that he
was going to have ravioli and squash for diner. I was standing at
the dining room table when Ned rounded the corner and said into his
toy phone, "Hello, police Mommy is making hot dogs for Alex and she
isn't going to give me any!"
A few nights later, Ned caught sight of our
wedding snapshot on the bedroom bulletin board. "You got married!"
he announced to Jill. "You got married with my dad!" He hugged and
kissed mommy, as Jill recalls, "to commemorate this happy event."
"Where were you?" he wanted to know. Jill
told him we got married at Aunt Judie's house. Paused. He frowned.
"You went without me!" he cried.
You get the idea. Talking with Ned is a trip. I
try to not make it a guilty trip, because Alex's talking is still
pretty what Ned calls "hard." I've had dozens of conversations with
Ned already, and he's not shy about the verbal pats on the back.
"I'm so proud of you, dad!" he tells me. "You're a
good boy!"
In Barnes and Noble, I haul him over to look at my
book, right there on the shelf. "Who's that, Ned?" I exclaim,
pointing to Alex's headshot on the back of the dust jacket.
"Alex!" exclaims Ned, then he bolts back to the
display of The Incredibles.
Ned does still reply "Yeeech!" when he encounters
some of Jill's cooking that he doesn't like (despite having wolfed
it just a few weeks ago, but that explanation to his mom requires,
lucky for him, more English than Ned yet has), and he probably
screeches more than is strictly necessary while playing "pillow" (a
sort of bed-based NFL line of scrimmage, with me as the biggest
defensive end). But all in all words are becoming more a part of
just dealing with Ned. Which he have to do.
Time for bed, Ned.
"I'm not hearing that!" he'll claim.
Time for bed, Ned.
"I don't want you saying that word
anymore."
What word? "Bed," he says.
I passed him once as he was kicking back on the
couch and asked what he was doing. "Takin' a break," he said. Jill
reports that Ned is also "blindly and robotically" (the loving
mother - teach him to "yeeeech!" her cooking) repeating phrases
freom TV, and that the other day he told her she had to buy Apple
Jacks "because it's part of this complete breakfast." We don't want
Ned watching too much Nickelodeon because we don't want him falling
for the lies of contemporary advertising, such as that a "complete
breakfast" comes with yogurt and strawberries and not bacon and
toast with butter.
Still, it is cute.
"Stop LAUGHING at me!"
I'm laughing with you, Ned.
"Stop LAUGHING at me!"
He jabs a finger. His eyebrows crash together; his
chin dips with what he must think is overpowering threat and
dignity. "I'm not joooo-king!"
Funny stuff. Like when he stepped on the hard
plastic octopus that Alex plays with in the bath and often flings on
the floor afterward.
"Damned fucking toys!"
Whereupon the nearer parent yanks the reins.
"Ned," Jill will say calmly. "We don't use those words, because they
hurt people's feelings. We don't use those words, Ned." Of course we
do, mostly me, when I step on something hard and plastic (I admire
Jill's self-control, even I can't always equal it). With visions of
notes home from his kindergarten next fall, I add, "That's right,
Ned. You and Alex should just pick up your toys when you're done
with them" Nice and calm. Don't make a big deal about it. Now we've
taught him to talk by speaking to him, we have to cash in before he
learns how to use silence, too. Like about 12 years from now, when
I'll probably spend a few evenings dying for him to talk to me.
You'll understand when you're grown up, Ned. Are
you grown up?
"Not as yet," he replies.
Copyright 2004 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
