I’m Sorry, Could You Repeat That Please?

The terrible twos; that glorious occasion in which potty training begins, baby beds get tossed out and that once so innocent infant begins to study the art of back talking. If memory serves, Lars did not go through this dreadful stage at the age of two, but like everything else, I have a theory for this…

As I have said before, Lars was a late speaker.  I suppose he just didn’t feel the need to talk, which means he didn’t feel the need to give me any sass either. We breezed by the age of two without a care in the world. At the time, I was so worried that my boy wasn’t speaking at par with the other children of his age…In present days I chortle in my former self’s face!  How naive I was, to trouble myself with such trivial problems. Why did I not just rejoice in the wonderfulness of having a low maintenance toddler? Since never again would I get to experience this such state of affairs.  Don’t get me wrong, Lars did hit a disconcerting phase, but it wasn’t until he was around three. This is when he really began to want to voice his opinion, albeit a three-year old opinion, but an opinion none the less.

Therefore, my theory commences; when a child hits that tender age in which they need so badly to speak, but is still having a hard time communicating, it is then when your life will quickly fall into that slippery slope of child rearing hell.

Sophie is currently residing in this wonderful chapter of her young life.  It started about 4 months ago, I had noticed she was beginning to say more words, what a joy to hear my daughter speaking and speaking rather well too. Although still having troubles with a majority of wording, I continued to take pride in her linguistic accomplishments. It wasn’t until she attempted speaking with multi syllable words that things got a little hairy.

Now I constantly find myself asking, “Pardon me Sophie? Say it again baby.”

“Peas wahsha sow in Mama’s roo.”

Hmmm well this is awkward, I feel like you are trying to get something important across to me, I just can’t quite seem to make it out. The most pitiful part is that she says her spiel with such vigor and liberation. After asking her multiple times to repeat herself, she will come to the obvious conclusion that speaking louder will breach this uncomfortable communication barrier.

“Peas wahsha sow in Mama’s roo.” She yells, again with vigor and liberation. Certainly this rise in vocals will allow my mother to understand what it is I need.  Unfortunately this is not the case, and her screams only cause me more stress. Thank god for Lars though, because he seems to have no problem understanding his two-year old sister, so he translates for me,

“Mama, she wants to watch a show in your room.”  Thanks Lars.

Unfortunately this decoding prodigy son of mine is not always at my beck and call when I need him, which means that form of interpretation, is not always a definite fail safe.  So when he is not there to assist me in these precarious endeavors, I am left to fend for myself. Like almost anyone, Sophie gets highly annoyed when you cannot understand what she is saying. She will cross her arms abruptly, roll her eyes, turn on her heel and march off to her bedroom. In this instance I give a sigh of relief and try to talk to her once she has cooled down, it is when she feels the need to scream out her frustrations that I begin to feel like all is lost.

You see my daughter’s voice is irritating at the best of times. It sounds as if her nasal passage has not yet matured and she is constantly speaking with a sever sinus infection.  So when she exercises her lungs in such a way, it mimics a high-pitched blow horn. This only makes her yelling recipient want crawl into a small hole cover their ears and pray that soon it will be over. I really hope she outgrows this phase soon.

Along with the bellowing, her speech is reminiscent of that drunken belligerent relative that we all have.  You know the individual that has had one too many Egg Nogs in Yule tide celebration. This is when they set their blurred sights on you to sit down with, “let’s have a deep and passionate chat about the mysteries of life.” They will say in some way or another, leaving you to dissect the meaning of their inebriated speech.  So in a futile attempt not to blow your cover as a caring family member, you nod your head whenever they pause and throw in the occasional ‘Yes, definitely,’ or ‘That’s a good point you make.’ And you can only hope that you’ve inserted your rouse somewhat in the right place of this person’s one sided conversation.

So now, I have just exposed my secret.  I treat my two-year old daughter the same as a lush who has ventured past literary ability.  I nod my head and humor her with yes or no answers while truly having no idea what she is saying. And this is just in a futile attempt not to have to hear that god-awful wail that seems to bury deep within my brain, leaving nothing but an utterly fleeting feeling of hope.

Hope that soon, this phase that is commonly known as the terrible twos will be over. Hope that one day we will be able to carry on an intelligent conversation with the child, without desperately wanting to exit the room to get away from her tyrant screams. And finally hope that this post will be long gone in the oblivion of the net by the time she is old enough to troll and read the web.  Because if I think her yelps are bad now, the despondent cries of an ego shattered teen are going to be much worse.

And if by some sordid phenomenon this post is still floating around in your teenage years Soph, I am sorry, and thank you for giving me such great blogging material.



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