As you may know, Nicholas is picking up words at light speed, and is always willing to try to say things when we ask him. This morning, for example, I said something to Sarah that included the word "hiatus" (it made sense, I promise). Just for giggles, I turned to Nicholas and said, "Nicholas, can you say hiatus?" Sure enough, he gave it a try.
There is one word, however, that he simply will not say, won't try, and will ignore us if we ask him: "Nicholas." He's allergic, it seems, to saying his own name.
Which is fine, in one sense, but it almost got me in a spot of trouble yesterday. I already mentioned that we spent some time at the grocery store waiting for his prescription. While I was paying, with him sitting in a grocery cart, he started flirting with the woman behind us (probably somewhere in her 60s), playing peek-a-boo around me and being smiley.
She asked him, "What's your name?" Which, by the way, apparently means that he now looks old enough to know his name and say it, which is interesting. Anyway, he says nothing, as usual. I turn to him and say, without thinking about it, "Will you tell her? Because you won't tell us!"
The woman was understandably stunned, though fortunately I was able to correct the connotation quickly. I guess the moral is that I need to be more careful what I say in front of people, although now that I know I can get a reaction with a statement of such underlying innocence, I may end up deploying it with devilish skill. I never was good at learning morals.
Reminds me of one time when I had my daughter on campus. She stopped to talk with another faculty member while I was talking to someone else, and as I started to walk away with her telling her to come with me, someone came up who was clearly convinced I was a kidnapper.
ReplyDeleteThis well-intentioned person believed my daughter belonged to the other faculty member, and of course when I tried to explain that, no, this was my daughter, my beloved child chose just that moment to act coy and shy and play "run away and play hide and seek and act like you don't know your father." I managed to convince this helpful stranger that she was my daughter and kept walking back to my office, but as I looked back I could tell the lady was still nervous and was headed back to the other faculty member to confirm the facts!
Thanks for sharing the story. Mine was undoubtedly a less frightening story (it only took about one sentence to clear up what I'd said), but the contours of accidentally distancing oneself from one's child in a public place hits home.
ReplyDeleteTomorrow we work on saying "Nicholas" ... (knowing, of course, that he will learn things when he is good and ready).