We've hit another major milestone this week. Although his vocabulary has been increasing exponentially over the last few months, with scores of new words every day, T has started to be able to tell me what he wants. This speech thing gets more exciting by the day!
There are still mistakes of course. Although he's been able to say 'all gone' for a while now, at an empty cup, plate or (more likely) packet of Organix 'no junk' cookies, he sometimes gets confused, saying 'go' instead. It took me a while to figure out why he was toddling towards me, beaker in fist, saying 'go, go' sadly.
Anything that belongs to him, or which he wants to do himself, is 'my'. My husband's grin almost split his face when T flung himself onto his knee and said 'MY Daddy'. This morning, as I wrestled him (T this is, not my husband) onto my knee to put on his socks and shoes, he squirmed and yelled 'my, my, my' whilst trying to attach a sandal upside down to the wrong foot, all by himself. We were running late of course, these tantrums only happen when we are, which is a shame as I'd like to have paused to see how long it would have taken him to right the shoe, find the correct foot and velcro it into place. Probably less time than it took me to get to the door, notice it was raining and drag him back inside to change into his boots (repeating the tantrum process) before leaving for nursery.
We also have the dreaded 'I want'. He says 'I want Dogger' (the book) a lot. I always read it to him, but am never quite sure whether he's actually just repeating a line from the story, the point at which Dave notices his beloved toy dog is missing. He's probably actually well and truly sick of the book, but wanting to show off his developing eloquence. More often we get 'I want dat' with a point at whatever I am eating, drinking, carrying or reading.
We went to soft play yesterday, and during a brief respite for sustinence (I found a long climb, astroglide and pregnancy bump rather incompatible) my friend's son sucked greedily at a pouch of pureed tropical fruit. T was not a puree baby, graduating straight from milk to 'adult' food which he could hold and feed himself. I have tried these pouches before, at first in the vain hope they might make meals out and about a little less messy, and then on various occasions when suckered in by BOGOF offers. Each time the packet (minus one, tried and discarded) has lingered at the back of the cupboard until fast approaching its use-by date at which point I incorporate it 'creatively' into a family meal (fruit gets stirred into my husband's rice-pudding, savoury into pasta sauce). I knew T wouldn't like the pouch F was devouring, but it just looked so interesting, with its bright pictures of fruit on the front, shiny silvery material and hard green spout. 'want, want, want, want, want …' said T, again wriggling on my knee and spraying crumbs of chewed up Organix fruit bar onto my knee. F's mum is vastly more organised than I am, and in a minute was able to procure a toddler spoon, squirt out a bit of the puree and hand it to T. He grabbed it forcefully, brought it almost to his mouth and sniffed. He opened his mouth, wide, and closed it again. He extended the tip of his tongue to the spoon, stuck it gingerly into the puree, grimaced, flung the entire lot down onto my lap, company for the fruit bar crumbs, and ran off to sit in the Bob the Builder ride-on (which as an aside, he doesn't know moves if you put 50p in, mean mother that I am).
So, as yet, he doesn't know how to say 'no thank you'. Or even 'I don't like that'. He does however have a creative way of expressing his opinion. This morning, faced with a bowl full of milky Weetabix (a very exciting bowl which reveals more of Iggle Piggle on the bottom with every spoonful) he tired after only a few scoops. Rather than rejecting the meal outright (something bound to incur the wrath of a mother used to chipping dried-on Weetabix from between the wooden floorboards) he pushed the mush around the bowl, singing. The tune was 'Twinkle, Twinkle', but all of the words, almost under his breath, as if out loud would have been too large an insult, were 'no'.
I don't like Weetabix either.