Family Friday
Normal speech development often progresses in a nice linear way - for other people's children. My first two kids, on the other hand, spent several years just barely hitting the recommended milestones, then leapfrogged from "Want juice!" to complex monologues within a matter of weeks.
So I wasn't too worried when, for many moons, our youngest child didn't say a heck of a lot. At age three, he communicated primarily via grunts, gestures, and dramatic pantomimes. A couple of neighborhood kids even asked when he would start talking already. Just wait, I said.
And as I knew they would, Danny's monologues started last summer. Now that he's four, his repertoire includes both original material and sheer mimicry. He repeats what he hears – frequently verbatim, using the original speaker's exact intonation. "He's copying me!" whines my first grader, as we explain that, in this case, imitation is indeed the sincerest form of flattery.
The upshot: we all have to watch what we say. Very carefully. It's kind of like that Brady Bunch episode when Peter tape-records his siblings' private conversations, then casually inserts snippets into family discussion and infuriates nearly everyone. And like Peter Brady's, Danny's repetitions aren't mindless or reflexive; he bides his time, waiting for the perfect situation to stick 'em in.
Example #1: As a rule, when I pick up Danny from preschool, he must use the potty before we leave (for obvious reasons). At the beginning of the year, he would routinely resist washing his hands afterwards. Then, during a blessedly brief phase, he would wash his hands three or four times in a row. Finally, a few weeks ago, he washed his hands just once. As he dried them, he announced "We don't waste water around here!" in the same brisk, no-nonsense tone his teacher uses.
Example #2: "Danny, put your coat on please."
"No, I don't want to."
"Danny, you need to put your coat on if you want to go to the lake and feed the ducks."
"OK, fine. Fine!" (and, if particularly perturbed, he'll add a third "FINE!"). I am solely responsible for this one, as the OK-fine line is my first choice when I'm dissatisfied with something but don't want to expend additional effort resisting it. (Understandably, I don't say this much anymore – who wants to sound like a four-year-old?)
Example #3: One day last summer, I was explaining something to Danny when he informed me that I was wasting his time. I was so nonplussed that I actually forgot about this until later that day, when we were trapped in the minivan together. Danny's sister was prattling on about something he found uninteresting (probably kindergarten boy-girl pairings), when he suddenly shouted, "Mommy, Samantha's wasting my time!" (I have no clue where this came from, by the way).
Now we've all heard that we should never laugh when our young children say outrageous things, as we're only encouraging such verbal transgressions. So of course I howled, swerved slightly, howled some more, then laughed myself into hiccups. And he has never said it again.
My laughter drummed this phrase out of Danny's active vocabulary because he wanted to be taken seriously. In other contexts, however, laughter probably will encourage the rogue words, particularly if your child is primarily seeking attention. Let's consider Danny's all-time favorite word: b-u-t-t.
A few weeks ago, my two older children (who have long outgrown the b-word's magic) were absorbed in some computer game when Danny, grinning widely, walked up to them and shouted "Butt!" He then waited for a response, but none came.
"Butt," he said a little louder, "Butt? Butt!" Still no answer.
"Butt!" He was now screaming, "BUUUUTTTTT!" He then collapsed, sobbing, on the floor. It works with my friends, he must have been wondering, why isn't it working now?
My fourth-grader finally glanced up. "What's wrong with Danny?" he asked (only mildly concerned). "I think he was just trying to get your attention, and now he feels ignored," I explained. Justin shrugged and went back to the game.
My daughter, however, turned to the sobbing heap on the floor and said, very kindly, "Hey Danny…BUTT!" He stopped crying and started giggling. They exchanged a few more "butts," then all was right with the world. (I'm a little conflicted here - don't want to reward her use of the word, exactly, but her heart was in the right place...).
Danny has since appropriated "Butt" for knock-knock jokes ("Butts! Butts who? Butts in the toilet! HAHAHA!") and changed the lyrics to some favorite songs ("Head, Shoulders, Knees and BUTTS, Knees and BUTTS!"). My husband pointed out that he's forming the syntax correctly, so "it's actually pretty impressive." Yay - wonder if his teacher will agree.
During all those months of relative silence, Danny was absorbing and processing others' speech, undoubtedly observing that language is Power. Since figuring that one out, he's decided that talking is worth his while, and that grunting and whining actually Wasted His Time.
Well-chosen, well-timed words can make grown women (or his sister) coo, or make a gang of four-year-olds laugh. The wrong words could earn him a stern rebuke from Miss Gertrude at preschool. As for "Butt!", I react with a bored, nonchalant "That's not a nice word, Danny," giving it neither praise nor excessive attention. It's fun wondering what'll pop out of his mouth next!
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