Run Fox Run

If I were a student of linguistics I would no doubt have some fancy name for the way Leda’s vocabulary is growing. Some words she learns by mimicry, recognizing that “thank you” is what you say when someone picks up something you dropped after Mommy has said it to the nice man next to us at the restaurant a few times. Other words have come from books (”heddicottor” for the Richard Scarry helicopter; “Wiggle”) or songs (”me,” “hello,” “abc’s”). Other items are named for the functions they provide for Leda: the computer is “baby” since it provides a portal to view Nathan, Milo & Huck, West, and Leda herself. From somewhere came the insidious “Elmo.” Her word for muffin starts with p, but it is consistently used to mean muffin, with the “please give me a piece of that” part implied. Baku is bicycle; “peedo” is peekaboo. There are other words that mean something to Leda that we cannot yet understand, even with contextual cues. “Salmon” and “Opah” are the prime subjects here, suggesting something of a seafood fixation. I can sense her frustration when we fail to comprehend, and I am striving to keep up with her.

Anyway we’re pretty much amazed by the way she’s developing. We sat down and made a list when she hit 18 months, but it was instantly obsolete. It’s clear that once you learn the word for “airplane,” each time one passes overhead (and this is surprisingly frequent; how did we never notice before?) it is a miracle to be named and celebrated. This is to say nothing of the singular transcendence of a passing Choo Choo. Thank-you, NJ Transit. Being a word person I’m not shocked by the importance of names or of namability but the awe in Leda’s eyes is a reminder that language — shared language — is something to rejoice in.

Ahhh, puppy. Salmon Opah, everybody.