I love words.

They emote.

They encourage.

They connect.

Even as a young person, I loved words.

So much so that I had vocabulary flashcards.

(It’s hard being this cool.)

So of course, we would endeavor to raise an effective communicator.

Of course. 

An effective communicator would benefit society.

After all, aren’t most of our problems rooted in poor communication?

And now we have a three-year-old who rarely stops communicating.

He talks at me from his room at night, whether I’m near or not.

“Night, Mom.”

“Night.”

“Night, Mom.  Come and check on me, Mom.”

“Night.”

“Tell Dad to check on me.”

“Night.”

“Night. Leave my turtle on the nightstand, okay? Leave the door open and the light on, okay?”

“Night.”

“Night, Mom.”

“Night.”

“And when I get up in the morning, can I eat my bar, watch my show, and stir your coffee?”

“Night.”

“Night, Mom.”

The child narrates everything.

Everything.

He will noisily burst into the nursery, where I’m rocking our youngest, to report that he just “tooted.”

Lately, his communication skills have produced a newfound assertiveness.

At his haircut, before approaching the chair, he points at the hairdresser.

“Do not use the blow dryer.”

I mean, who’s the boss here?

Are you worried?

You should be.

Before his nap, he told me to leave his show on.

Fifteen minutes into his “nap,” I hear him holler from rooms over.

“You turned my show off.”

Guys, I feel like he’s watching me.

Most days, my ears are filled to the brim with my three-year-old’s words.

By noon, I’m out of words and resort to restraining my children in their car seats while blaring a deafening children’s music album because my eyes are crossing, and I’m melting.

Who did, who did,
Who did, who did
Who did swallow
Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo?

Even when I gently tell my son that Mommy needs some silence for a few minutes, it hurts his feelers.

The last time I delicately implied that I might need a moment, I look over to see his head down, shoulders bobbing, tear rolling down his chubby cheek.

I love him so.

He wants to, has to, engage.

In fact, every time he sees our neighbor through the kitchen window, he runs out our back door and hollers over our fence.

“Well, Sue, how’d you get here?”

Bless.

The woman is in her own backyard. That’s how she got here.

But he is so anxious to connect that he says this same uncomfortable phrase every time.

Facepalm.

I intended to raise an effective communicator.

One that is discerning with words and never says anything awkward.

Instead, I’ve raised myself.