Having a two-year-old is like living in another country. Even the most basic communications can be grueling, taking enormous energy and time. For example, on the way home from school the other day. . .
Michael: Dadda. Tap. White?
Me: uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Michael: Dadda. Tap. White?
Me: Daddy's something white?
Michael: No! Dadda. Tap. White.
Me: Daddy's . . . uh . . .
Michael: Dadda. Tap. White!
Me: Sorry, Michael, I can't understand!
Michael: Dadda. Tap. White! Dadda. Tap. White!
Out of pity for you, the reader, I'll omit the increasingly urgent variations on a theme. Then, by a stroke of serendipity, just as we had reached a panic level, we passed a traffic signal, which enlightened me.
Me: Ohhh . . . Daddy stopped at the light?
Michael, frustratation giving way to great relief and joy: Yess! Dadda. Tap. White!
I guess the difference is in other countries people don't usually repeat themselves ten to twenty times. Usually you just both smile and nod, pretending you understand, hoping they don't notice. A two-year-old never lets you get away with it.
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