All five deserving letters

May 17, 2010

You love playing peek-a-boo.  You laughed for a solid five minutes last night, while eating bits of chicken from my enchiladas.  I stooped down below your high chair tickling your feet, then popped up to meet your eyes over and over. 

You love this game.  You love it when Max runs around the house, peeking out from edges of walls.  You love it when we hold an object in front of our faces, moving it in various directions (to mix it up a bit) and surprising you with funny faces.

You enjoy this even more than, dare I say it, baseball.  But your love for peek-a-boo will fade with your age, and this love — obsession really — for baseball might only grow. 

Let me explain.

There’s not much else we do these days.  There’s baseball on the television, whiffle ball in the yard, games of catch in the hallway, driveway, car.  We go to practices or games 3, 4, 5 days per week.  Our house is littered with bats (five of them), balls (innumerable), gloves (five of them), and hats (who knows? they seem to be everywhere until someone needs a particular one). 

It’s no wonder that it’s all you want to do. 

“Help me learn this,” you tell us in your screechy way.  You hand me a glove (anybody’s, you aren’t discerning), and I squeeze my hand into Max’s tiny glove and attempt to catch the baseballs you throw from 14 inches away.  You hand me another glove (if it’s Matthew’s, than I can wear one on each hand), but then you screech, “No, that’s not right, Mom!” and take it away.

I encourage you to use a softer ball (I’ve only been hit in the face twice — I don’t dare look away again), but “No,” you screech, “that’s not right. Use this one!” 

You hand me the plastic bat and toss whiffle balls in all directions.  Sometimes I can hit it.  Sometimes you throw it at the cat.

You’re hand is too small for dada’s glove.  (Mine too.)  But still you wish to understand its function. 

“Hat,” you say, pointing to the baseball hat on the couch.  I hand it to you.  You put it on my head, then take it off.  You put it on your head, then take it off.  “Hat.”

Your word for “bat” is much like your word for “cat,” and your word for ball is “get it.”  But your word for “catch” is perfectly enunciated, each letter having a full sound, as if you know it has five deserving letters.


Your sign for music has changed.  It used to be just a wag of your hand, index finger pointing out at the imaginary orchestra.  You use your full hand now, much like you were dribbling a basketball.  And you dance using your full body.  Months ago you would sway side to side while holding onto the nearest furniture.  Now you bounce on your knees, both hands in front, perhaps signing “music” but looking like you own this dance floor and all the young ladies on it.  You seriously have some hip hop style, baby. 


We want to get this on video soon — this baseball play, these dance moves.  These moments are fleeting, I know too well.  Knowing this makes all these days bittersweet.

Pictures coming soon.


One Response to “All five deserving letters”

  1. dad said

    This is a good one, sweetheart.

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