My little girl, Amelie, turns 1-year-old this month. Incredible how time flies. It was Dec. 26 of last year that she made her ever-so-slow descent into the world and changed our lives forever. Now, as we close in on that milestone first birthday, it seems incredible how much she has changed.
From lump to little girl in less than 12 months. It sounds more like a ready-to-eat stuffing commercial or one of those weight-loss ads.
Boy, how the changes do come. Little feet are suddenly big feet. They were tiny, like a bird’s. Now they look like flounders.
She’s toddling around the house, not without help from chairs and other supports, but it’s walking in my book. She has dozens of expressions, is gaining height and has more hair than some zip codes.
But there’s one category I’m still not sure about: talking. Does she talk or doesn’t she talk? That is the question. To tell you the truth, I’m up in the air on that one. She’s never been a baby talker, uttering those cartoon-esque “goo-goos” or “ga-gas.” Instead, this sweet little angel with honey brown curls and eyes crisp as polished apples has always chosen a much less refined “Heh!” It sounds like what a trucker might give out while wolfing down spicy sausage.
“Heh!” she belches when she sees an ornament she likes. “Heh!” she barks when the dog marches through the room. “Heh!” she howls when she wants something to eat, or when we’re not giving it to her fast enough.
Once in a while, after a big accomplishment (something important and special, like pulling off a sock), she varies it with a “hah!” It’s a victory cry, of sorts, and she stares at the sock, mocking it. “Off my foot, sock,” I imagine her thinking. “Stink up someone else’s foot.”
“Hah!”
There are other “words” — some loud, clear consonants and syllables brought together and seemingly going somewhere, only to fall apart into nonsense and ending with her trademark, “Heh!”
Is it talking?
My wife is convinced it is, and that her first word has already been uttered. She claims it was “dog,” and I have to admit she makes a pretty good case. When Amelie sees the dog, she gives out a strange yelp that, if you concentrate hard enough, might just be that. (Although, it could also be “daw,” but does it matter?)
You start to feel like some Bigfoot or UFO fanatic. We overanalyze every little sound, deconstructing its meaning, trying to hear what may or may not really be there. Suddenly, we not only hear words, but we start hearing poetry or cryptic messages.
“Did she just say, ‘the pumpkin rises at midnight’? What do you think it means?” or “I swear she just gave the preamble to the Constitution. She’s a genius.”
She might have picked up “daddy,” which warms my heart, but it’s hard to know for sure.
“Say it again,” I beg her, and she does, but it comes out like a long run-on sentence of baby babble that begins with promise, and then trails off.
“Da-da da da gaggle-gaggle marscapone baba poo-poo.”
Not quite right, but I encourage her.
I know it’s just babbling, a language that might better be described as “mumbling drunk,” but meaningless or not, it is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. She’s like a little songbird as she sits there and rambles off her funny little language.
Give it time, I tell myself. Don’t hurry her up. It will rush by fast enough. It is ALREADY rushing by fast enough. Enjoy it now. One day you won’t be able to keep her quiet. So enjoy this world without chatter and endless questions. It’s quickly coming to an end, and as soon as she can call me by name, I’ll never hear the end of it.