Where'd that come from?

"Where'd that come from?"  It is a question I hear no less than 30 times a day during Sofia's waking hours.  When she asks, it may or may not be obvious about what she is inquiring.  She may or may not be pointing to the object in question.  The object may or may not be something she has seen before; often, it is. Frequently, the object is something about which that very question has already been asked - multiple times.  "Where'd that come from?"  "Where'd that come from?"  "Where'd that come from?"  It all makes me wonder sometimes, "where'd my sanity go?"

All joking aside, Sofia is a very curious child, and I adore that about her.  Curiosity is such a basic, intrinsic part of childhood, and one of the great joys of parenthood is watching your child discover the world through wide, bright eyes.  Sofia seems to exercise her curiosity to the extreme, and at times, it does wear on my patience.  Initially, after being asked and then answering "where'd that come from?" several times in a row about the very same item, I would just ignore the subsequent inquiries.  If ignoring a toddler during a tantrum is a good way to get the tantrum to stop, maybe the same would work for a toddler conducting a one-question interrogation?  No.  Funnily enough, that's not how it worked.  So instead of ignoring the question, if I heard it more than three times, I would answer her by turning the tables and asking her, "where'd that come from?"  More often than not, she would answer me, repeating back what I had just told her.  But it didn't stop her from asking again.

I came to realize that perhaps the question Sofia was asking wasn't really the one to which she wanted an answer, maybe not all of the time.  Sure, when we're in the car and she peers out the window and inquires about a bird, another vehicle, or a pedestrian, she likely wants to know where it came from, so I will answer accordingly.  But when we're in the grocery store and she points to a pomegranate or a spaghetti squash, something with which she is not familiar, rather than tell her where it came from, I will tell her what the item is.  Nine times out of ten, she will not again ask where that particular item came from - she has her answer.  For as many words as Sofia has in her vocabulary, she does not yet seem to be able to string together "what's that?"  Another reminder that this tiny little fireball really is still a little girl, albeit a precocious one.
 
Well-intentioned people always like to warn parents of toddlers to beware the whys, the neverending whys.  I myself have received my fair share of those warnings.  And when I hear one, I smile and nod politely, all the while welcoming that new challenge.  Why?  Because it is a rite of passage.  Because it will mark a new milestone in Sofia's life.  And - YES - because it'll give me a break from the wheres.  But mostly because it will offer me even more chances to teach my girl about the world, to help her to understand how things work, grow, play, interact, break, begin, end, to encourage her to think and wonder and question her surroundings, to brighten her beautiful brown eyes even more.  How could I grow tired of that?

Three Little Words

In her almost 23 months of life, Sofia has hit many of the much-celebrated milestones (and plenty of the dreaded ones, too) that most soon-to-be two year-olds do.  She smiled and laughed at the funny faces her daddy and I made at her while she lounged in her bouncer.  She rolled over after innumberable demonstrations by yours truly.  Without assistance, she sat and balanced that extra-large pumpkin head of hers the day before she turned five months old.  She ate solid foods and showed an early preference for sweets.  Shortly thereafter, she developed hives and was diagnosed with four food allergies; she has since outgrown three.  She scooted all over the house on her booty, defiantly refusing to crawl until a little less than two months before she started to walk.  She slept through the night a whole 11 times.  11.  She made friends.  She took her first plane ride, first swam in a pool, and met Mickey Mouse - all in one week!  She reluctantly dipped her toes in the Atlantic Ocean.  She bravely extended her chubby little hand to pet the most ferocious house cat known to man.  She played in the snow.  She drew with crayons.  She ate crayons.  She fell in love with Elmo.  She made animal noises.  She visited the Emergency Room.  She talked.  She talked and talked and talked, then she talked some more.  She talked nonstop.  She's still talking.

It comes as no surprise to me, nor should it to anyone who knows me, that I have quite a verbose, expressive child.  Before Sofia spoke her first official word (kitty, of course), she had been communicating with us with varying degrees of effectiveness, and her frustration showed.  Mine did, as well.  I was certain that once she started to speak, our communication would improve immensely.  And it did.  Very rarely did we have to wonder what she wanted - usually snacks - or what was bothering her - usually a lack of snacks.

More rapidly than I expected, Sofia's vocabulary began to expand.  She mastered animals and their sounds.  She learned the names of her favorite foods ("hummy" for hummus remains my favorite).  She rattled off body parts.  She recited the names of our family members.  Clothes, Disney characters, vegetables, insects - no problem.  She not only knew how to say so many words, but she knew how to use them correctly.  Her mastery left me in wonderment at how powerful and efficient her little mind was.  At one point, it seemed as if she was adding 2-3 words a day to her vocabulary, sometimes even words that we didn't actively try to teach her.  It was evident that she was paying very close attention to what we were saying whether or not we were talking to her.  So when, I wondered, would she start to say those three little words which I had so gently whispered to her multiple times a day even since before she was born?

Part of our bedtime routine is saying goodnight to Daddy.  Daddy tells Sofia, "I love you, Baby."  Sofia responds, "Wuv."  It's absolutely adorable, and I love getting to witness it every night.  Still, hearing this night after night for months on end did nothing to quench the thirst to hear that word directed to me.  Mommy.  Giver of life.  Nurturer.  Milk maid.  Nurse.  Short order cook.  Taxi driver.  Social secretary.  Personal shopper.  Court jester.  Personal assistant.  Mommy.  When would she tell me she loved me?

As Sofia began stringing several words together into sentences, she became a little narrator of sorts.  "Mommy almost done shower."  "Kitty Rufus poopy floor."  "Baby hungry."  "Where Daddy go?"  "Big boy shoveling [snow]."  "Mommy car driving."  The list goes on and on.  If it's happening within our vicinity, I will hear about it, even if I'm the one doing it.  Sometimes, it's as if she gets caught in a loop, and she'll repeat the same darn thing upwards of ten times; she really spares no expense when it comes to getting her point across.  The mundane little details warrant just as much attention as do the big ones. 

The other day, we were driving home from a play date at a friend's house.  Sofia usually uses this opportunity to point out each passing vehicle and ask me where it's going, and this day was no exception.  As we pulled into our development, she victoriously shouted, "We're home!"  I navigated the car into our parking spot, put the car in park, took the keys from the ignition, and braced myself for the long walk into our building in the snow.  Out of the blue, my little narrator announced, "I love you, Mommy."  And just like that, I was prouder than words could describe.