There was a time when Little Boy couldn’t understand a single thing that Mr. P and I said to each other. This was good for us, because probably 75% of the time, we were talking about him. Not unkindly, of course, but frankly: his progress, his development, his proclivities; what we could do to combat sleeping issues, eating issues, behavior issues. Of course, Little Boy is doing fantastic, but parenting an adopted child requires a lot of our attention and energy, so it was sort of good that we could sit at the dinner table and discuss him to our heart’s content while he sat next to us, oblivious.
Then, he began to catch words. “School?” he’d repeat. “Swimming?” “Bicycle?” Certain buzzwords, like “doctor” “shot” “pizza”, I began to spell out rather than ignite any contention.
Now, his language has progressed to the point where we have to watch what we say. Last night at dinner (Kashi vegetable pizza with a side of mashed spinach and onions), I was putting the last piece of pizza on Mr. P’s plate and told him, “If it’s too big for you, you can give some to Little Boy.” Little Boy’s eyes lit up.
“Mommy said you give me pizza!” he declared triumphantly to his Daddy. And he was so delighted with Little Boy that he did.
