Talk Show

Abbie is not a talker. I consider her capable of saying “more,” which can lead to some conversations that read like an Abbott and Costello routine,* but that’s pretty much the extent of her audible vocabulary. She babbles a little bit, but instead of stringing various sounds together to form sounds like real words (“ayahguhbahjuhwoo”), her babbling tends to be the same thing repeated over and over (“ayayayayayayayay”). In pediatric terms, this is called the Hollywood Studio Executive phenomenon (“teen comedy teen comedy teen comedy”).

Most of her vocalizations come in the form of shrieks. Generally she yells when she becomes excited. If we set her on the ground to wander around a store, so will become so exuberant with the possibility of finding completely new objects to pull off of shelves and chew on that she will begin shouting at a volume generally only heard from humans at sporting events, and even then only when something exceptionally good happens like trainers carrying the opposing team’s star receiver off the field with an ACL tear. She also screams a lot while we feed her; apparently that the joy that is mashed banana can so overwhelm her senses that she must yell to prevent bursting with pleasure. She also likes to yell while I’m listening to the radio, especially on full-count pitches with at least one runner in scoring position.

Since the spoken word is progressing slower than we’d like, I’m trying to teach her some signs. Supposedly children can pick up sign language before they can pick up spoken words, just like how children can learn to say curse words before they learn almost every useful word. I used to think that teaching children sign language was just some sill new age theory that another language helps build a child’s mind. Other brain-building theories I scoff at include playing classical music, any toy that boasts about its brain building potential, and Flintstone’s Chewable Vitamins. Now I see the inherent value of teaching a child to sign. If she can sign when she starts whining for something, I’ll have an idea of what she wants; instead of having to ask, “What do you want sweetie?” I have to ask, “What do you mean you want to read the cat?”

Ellie has been working hard to teach her to point up when she wants us to pick her up. Currently when she wants up, she grabs onto our pants and whines while trying to attach the bottom of her foot to our leg in the hope that she will somehow find enough traction to walk up our pants. This is not as gentle a form of communication as pointing up, but it gets her message across just as effectively. Sometimes she understands “up,” like if we ask if she wants up she will throw her hand in the air to say “darn right I want up.” Then other times she’ll start whining and trying to crawl up our pants and we’ll ask if she wants up, but she just degenerates into a howling blubbery mess.

She has yet to give us the “up” sign without us saying the word “up.” When she shows some initiative, that’s when I’ll consider this signing thing a success. Until then, I’ll just try to keep guessing what “ayayayayayayayay” means.

* “Abbie can say ‘more’ now.
“Like what?”
“’More.’”
“I know she can say more, but what words can she say?”
“She doesn’t really say much, just “’more.’”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Know what?
“What does she say?”
“’More.’”
“I know that!”
“Then why do you keep asking?”