When my son was a toddler he never became verbal until he was around 4 years old. Or maybe I should say he wasn't verbal with us, his parents. He was plenty verbal with his older sister Kaitlin. In fact, he spoke to her in a language that only she could understand and she acted as his interpreter to the rest of the world. Whenever he'd come up to me and start talking, I'd ask Kaitlin, "What did he say?" or "What does he want?" and she'd tell me. He always seemed perfectly happy with whatever I gave him or however I responded in return...he could understand me, that was for sure.
Well, funny how Life can repeat itself. Dylan is the same way. But he has no Kaitlin to interpret for him. He just has me. And his basic language consists of "Ahhhhhhhh!" said in a thousand different tones, a thousand different volumes, a thousand different ways. And I understand about 95% of them. Sometimes he'll throw in a new one that will stymie even me for a bit, just testing my intelligence I'm thinkin' to see if I can catch on. I do. And it isn't that we don't try to get him to say words. He's stubborn and he's just not going to talk until he's good and ready. He isn't ready yet is all. My son and daughter-in-law get a little concerned about it now and then but this is a road already traveled for me. I know one of these days Dylan will spew forth and, once he does, he'll never stop. Just like his dad.
Lately Dylan is enthralled with the new refrigerator I bought right after mine died at Christmas. It's "Energy Efficient" but I think it'll be a while before I find out just how much of an energy saver it is because it spends more time open than closed. He's not quite 2 and he's 38" tall and weighs 39 pounds...a BIG boy. He can pick up a full gallon of milk off the lower door shelf of the refrigerator and carry it around like it's nothing. Dear Hubby was so impressed he took a gallon and put it on the scale to see how much it weighed....7 pounds, and that was one not completely full. Dylan also loves dill pickles and apple slices so he'll pull out the pickle jar or bring me an apple if he wants one peeled and sliced. Instead of putting his magnetic letters and numbers on the refrigerator, I'll open up the door and find an assortment lined up all along the front of the shelves on the inside. He brings out the gallon of milk when he wants a bottle, juice if he wants his sippy cup refilled.
He is obsessed with chickens. Our neighbors across the street have 4 of them in a coop behind their house and have given me permission to take him back there to see them. We go 3...maybe 4...times per day if the weather allows. And there's a house over near the library where there are 4 chickens scratching around in dirt there, too, so whenever we walk over that way we have to stop and watch the chickens. In his non-verbal state he doesn't say "chicken". He says "Brack!" which is the sound the chicken makes, at least to his ear. I spend a lot of time clucking like a chicken, I must say...he finds that funny for some reason. About 2 months ago he put his finger inside the fence of our neighbors' coop and was pecked by one of the hens on his right index finger, hard enough to draw a spot of blood. And since then, every day, even tho it healed up ages ago, he still holds up his finger...sometimes the right one and sometimes the left because he isn't sure which one it was any more...and we go in to the bathroom and I spray a dab of Bactine on it.
When Dear Hubby comes home from work, he's in the habit of grabbing his slippers and putting them on once he's done target shooting with his bow out in the back yard. Dylan has observed this and the other day, when Dear Hubby came in from outside and sat down in the rocker, Dylan went back behind the chair where the slippers usually sit and brought them out to his Papa. He has done this every day since. And we don't ask him for them, he does this on his own. He brings me diapers to let me know he needs a fresh one put on. He loves to dust. When we're looking out the front windows together, he likes to climb on my back, wrap his arms around my neck, rest his head on my shoulder, and gaze out with me that way. And when news helicopters fly past the house, he flies into my arms and we run outside to spot them, then watch them until they disappear from sight. When we're out walking and he sees something he wants to share with me, he turns in his stroller and looks at me over his shoulder to point and smile and make sure I'm seeing it, too.
These mean nothing to you, I know. You may not even think they're especially cute or precious. But they mean everything to me and someday...when Dylan reads this...maybe he'll remember them, too. And just how much his Grandma loved him.