Talking more

Sometimes, when I think about things that Barak says, it occurs to me that if it weren't for the way he pronounces things, a lot of what Barak says these days sounds like normal adult speech. Fortunately for me, he does still sound like a toddler. A concrete mixer is still a "croncrete mixer"; the bathroom is still the "brafroom." If he needs something, he still asks me to "help you please," "can I" is still "C'I" and "th" still comes out "f." So I am still asked to "help you please wiffa socks," or "play wif Lego"; Friday night we "make kiddush motzi"; new and complex thoughts come out slowly, with pauses between words and great thought. "First go to the barbershop getta haircut, then getta lollipop. I'm gonna get a red lollipop, 'kay Imma?"

But there are now more and more sentences that make it clear that Barak is barrelling toward kidhood. "Abba, no no can't be late shul!" has turned into, "Abba, don't be late for shul!" (I admit it, I put him up to that one.) "Mamaksa" is now "popsicle," "ikeem" is "ice cream," "No no can't touch it baby!" is "Iyyar, you can't touch that, it's not for you! That's my backhoe loader!" "No can't touch my leg," is "Imma, he's touching my leg! Stop!"

We hear that one a lot, actually. And yesterday, the two of them had their first genuine brotherly fight--as in, not Barak grabbing a toy away and Iyyar crying, but Iyyar grabbing Barak's sunglasses, Barak objecting, and the two of them then whaling at each other in the double stroller. I solved it by taking Barak out and letting him walk. Shades of things to come.

Oh, and on the subject of the barbershop--we went this afternoon. (The barber, before I could stop him, offered Barak not one but two lollipops--a red one and an orange one. One lollipop was had at the time, another saved for a potty incentive. Because Barak can drag lollipop-licking out for hours, I set the oven timer; when it beeped, the lollipop went into a container. It's now sitting on the windowsill by Barak's bed, waiting for the morning.) Anyway--I asked the barber to do what he did last time. "Short, please. Keep his payes." The barber mamash SHAVED HIS HEAD. He has a shaved head and payes. He looks like he belongs in B'nai Brak, except for the, um, L. L. Bean plaid pants, croncrete mixer shirt and excavator kippa. I don't think they have a lot of excavator kippas in B'nai Brak. Although, who knows, I could be wrong.