Aart Varts
"Aaart Varts," he says pointing in the air somewhere to the right of the stove and on top of the counter.
"What honey?"
"Aart Varts!" He demands hands now at his sides and eyebrows arching.
"I don't understand," I crouch down and try to look him in the eyes. "What do you want?"
"Aart Varts," he sighs. With his vocabulary growing by the nanoseconds I have found myself puzzled by his new language twice already this morning and we've only been awake an hour. "I wan aart varks."
"Aardvarks?" Asking the seemingly ridiculous question, "You want aardvarks?" I clearly enunciate the word thinking it would make him understand what he was asking more clearly.
"Yes."
Okay, so understanding the question is not an option this morning.
It is no surprise he is fascinated with this new animal. We'd been reading his new favorite book of the week. Animals in the jungle, puzzle pieces, dancing, elephants, numbers, and of course, aardvarks. And up until this point, without the aid of this book, the little two year old had never had seen or heard of this crazy animal with a pointed nose who likes to suck up ants.
"I can't give you aardvarks..." I begin to explain.
His lips curl, eyes well... Oh, oh. The cry is coming.
"I want art varts!"
Here it comes. His eyes gush. He pouts and walks over to the pantry door and hangs on the doorknob, sobbing, "Art varts, aaart vaaarts, aaaaart vaaaaarts...." Over and over and over. With the word growing in length time.
Wanting the crying to end, especially so early in the day, and a terrible sign for what will happen late in the afternoon when he was tired.
"Buddy, I don't understand," I open the pantry door hoping the site of the Goldfish bag or Ritz Dinosaur crackers will silence this pesky crying.
"Aaaart Vaaaaarts..."
Clearly I was mistaken.
My eyes search the pantry shelves for a calming agents, and eye the fruit snacks as a viable solution. What would my mother say? Or the neighbors. Fruit snacks before noon! Despicable. But yet, the crying was getting louder, and now the frantic pointing has started again. I mean, who would know if I cave in and give him a treat. I could brush his teeth (again) before he heads to day care. Clearly erase any mommy wrong doings from the sight of the judgmental workers who might think I only feed him candy-like fruit snacks at every meal. It is an option and at this point a quite viable one. But then... I find them.
The aart varts. On the second shelf, buried between Prego spaghetti sauce and a canister of peanut butter. Pop Tarts. French Toast flavor. His latest favorite flavor. One he was able to eat on his own, taking his own bites, just a few days earlier.
"Do you want POP TARTS?"
The crying instantly stops. He wipes his eyes, "Mom cook aart vaarts puleez."
Mystery solved. Crying ended. Mom saves the day! Well... Successfully translates the complicated and encrypted language of toddler.
"What honey?"
"Aart Varts!" He demands hands now at his sides and eyebrows arching.
"I don't understand," I crouch down and try to look him in the eyes. "What do you want?"
"Aart Varts," he sighs. With his vocabulary growing by the nanoseconds I have found myself puzzled by his new language twice already this morning and we've only been awake an hour. "I wan aart varks."
"Aardvarks?" Asking the seemingly ridiculous question, "You want aardvarks?" I clearly enunciate the word thinking it would make him understand what he was asking more clearly.
"Yes."
Okay, so understanding the question is not an option this morning.
It is no surprise he is fascinated with this new animal. We'd been reading his new favorite book of the week. Animals in the jungle, puzzle pieces, dancing, elephants, numbers, and of course, aardvarks. And up until this point, without the aid of this book, the little two year old had never had seen or heard of this crazy animal with a pointed nose who likes to suck up ants.
"I can't give you aardvarks..." I begin to explain.
His lips curl, eyes well... Oh, oh. The cry is coming.
"I want art varts!"
Here it comes. His eyes gush. He pouts and walks over to the pantry door and hangs on the doorknob, sobbing, "Art varts, aaart vaaarts, aaaaart vaaaaarts...." Over and over and over. With the word growing in length time.
Wanting the crying to end, especially so early in the day, and a terrible sign for what will happen late in the afternoon when he was tired.
"Buddy, I don't understand," I open the pantry door hoping the site of the Goldfish bag or Ritz Dinosaur crackers will silence this pesky crying.
"Aaaart Vaaaaarts..."
Clearly I was mistaken.
My eyes search the pantry shelves for a calming agents, and eye the fruit snacks as a viable solution. What would my mother say? Or the neighbors. Fruit snacks before noon! Despicable. But yet, the crying was getting louder, and now the frantic pointing has started again. I mean, who would know if I cave in and give him a treat. I could brush his teeth (again) before he heads to day care. Clearly erase any mommy wrong doings from the sight of the judgmental workers who might think I only feed him candy-like fruit snacks at every meal. It is an option and at this point a quite viable one. But then... I find them.
The aart varts. On the second shelf, buried between Prego spaghetti sauce and a canister of peanut butter. Pop Tarts. French Toast flavor. His latest favorite flavor. One he was able to eat on his own, taking his own bites, just a few days earlier.
"Do you want POP TARTS?"
The crying instantly stops. He wipes his eyes, "Mom cook aart vaarts puleez."
Mystery solved. Crying ended. Mom saves the day! Well... Successfully translates the complicated and encrypted language of toddler.
