Dearest Daughters,
I present to you the following dialogue for illustrative purposes. The names of people and places have been changed for their protection. The following is not based on true events. Don't try this at home. And this message will self-destruct in thirty seconds.
People: Your girls are so smart!
Mommy: Really? You think so? No.
People: Look how she does that thing with the thing and knows about the thing over by the thing that does that thing.
Don't feel abandoned by your mother. It's not that I don't think you're smart. Or that I don't want you to think you're smart. And it's not just modesty.
It's that you girls act like you're not smart. Well, Danjo, mostly. Babybel is a bit of a smartypants.
I look at Danjo and I just know she understands what I'm saying. But, she stares back at me like I'm a baboon. "Na? Na?" she'll question, tilting her head, kind of like a dog, trying to figure out what you're saying.
Then she'll run away, laughing an evil laugh, spraying milk from here to infinity as she waves her half-empty bottle around her head. I'll lunge for the bottle that I told you to give to me. But, being the ninja you are, you and the bottle are suddenly on top of the coffee table. And you're giving me a seemingly clueless look as if to say, "Wait! This isn't what you told me to do, Mommy?" Oh, Danjo, you knew full well that's not what I told you to do. "How about this?" she'll say with her eyes, flinging her bottle back across the room, landing it in the sink.
And that's when I realize. You're smarter than you let on.
And the past few days you've been slipping. Letting your cards show. Revealing that you are far smarter than you would like us to think.
It's not that you're "starting to talk." You've been talking. You tell us off and I'd prefer to not know what you're saying. And it's not as if you're following an expected progression of word acquisition. You know, Mama, Dada, dog, ball, etc.
Oh, Danjo. I know that you know how to speak English. You just won't.
It was the same with walking. I just knew, with all my heart and soul, that you could walk. But, you wouldn't. And I imagined you, like the Toy Story toys, walking around, jumping off of furniture, sneaking out of the house, whenever I turned my back.
I give you three words of evidence: chicken, noodles and orange.
Besides the proper nouns to describe the people in your life, you use few English words. You know a handful of others, as you've let those slip too, but you refuse to use them with any regularity: more, up, down, out, etc.
Chicken, I can accept. We say "good morning, chickens!" every morning when we wake and pull up the shade in your room. When you see the chickens in the morning or when you're outside, you say chicken. Simple enough.
But, noodles and orange!? These were not even words that you echoed after offering food to you! You were hungry and I was in the process of putting food on your high chair tray and you declared excitedly, "noodles!" Your dad, Auntie Katherine and I looked at each other to make sure we all heard what we thought we heard from a fifteen month old who insists she doesn't speak English. So, you said it again, like, duh, people, NOODLES!
And then, I was holding you, while getting a snack for myself. (Maybe you were hungry again. Am I recognizing a pattern?) And you pointed to the fruit in my hand and said, "orange" all nonchalant and whatever about it. Like, lady, can you take a minute to stop being so self-centered and give me some of that orange?
ORANGE?!?! NOODLES?!?! CHICKEN?!?!
What the stinking heck?
You can say obscure two-syllable words, but you can't say "dog" or "ball" or "please" or "thank you" or "Mommy, would you prefer a glass of wine or a gin and tonic?"
Love,
P.S. Oh. This isn't to mention the fact that you invented a game where you pull everything out of the shelves of your play kitchen, crawl inside and close the door in on yourself, sitting quietly and pretending your family doesn't exist. I kid you not, this is a real thing in our house.
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