Ever since Byron was born I was excited for him to talk. I also had weird dreams during his infancy where he was suddenly freakishly verbal.
He’s been turning into that freaky nightmare baby lately, repeating things you shouldn’t have said (like the expletive Daddy used when he sent the glass tumbler crashing to the floor) or constructing elaborate sentences you didn’t think he could make in his toddler grammar (Daddy is going to to work today?)
He’s had a cold and his voice has a scratchy, bassy quality that makes it freakish when he walks into the kitchen and barks at you. His tone is both questioning and accusatory. “Daddy eating bread?” “Daddy get me cookie now?” Or, simply, “Daddy’s doing that?”
If it’s worth saying once, it’s worth saying a dozen times. On Thursday he wanted to tell me again and again that he threw up on Wednesday. I knew about it the first time, because I was there, but “Me fwew up,” was the refrain of the day.
Of course it’s mixed up with mystery utterances. I’ve always liked puzzles so it’s a bit of fun to try and sort out what he means when he says, urgently, over and over, from his crib: “Bwan go abba bik. Bwan go abba bik. BWAN GO ABBA BIK.” He might be channeling demons who are speaking dead languages, but I think he wants a toy. Like, really wants it, but which toy? Or is he trying to tell me there’s a bug on my head? I don’t know.
His voice is in my head, now, narrating my life. “Daddy in tar. Daddy go to work. Daddy wite a bog about me?”