motherly influence

Although she lived halfway across the country, my mother’s advice during our yearly visits impacted her grandchildren’s lives.
We were eating supper with her when my then toddler son pointed to some item on the table, “uh, uh.”
I followed his finger and touched the catsup.
He screamed, shook his head and pointed again, “uh, uh.”
I picked up a hot dog and he reached for it. My mom watched us just once. She took me aside, “It’s time to teach him to talk. There is no sense in his grunting and crying for what he wants. He will say the word if you expect it of him.”
“But, he …” I started to respond and faded. She was right, I had not expected him to try to talk. My laxness kept him at an infant level in communication.
I began to remedy the situation. Fastening his diapers, I patted his little tummy and chanted, “Belly, belly, belly. Say it, say belly.”
He stared at me as if I were from another planet.
“And here’s your belly button. Beep,” I tickled him.
He giggled and tried to make a B sound.
He came to the sink with a cup and whined for water. I held the glass. “Water, say water.”
He danced and whined reaching his hand up to me.
I knelt down, looked him in the face and smiled. “Water. Water.”
He looked at me and tried, “Wah ha.”
“That’s right, water,” I filled a cup for him.
A few minutes later when he wanted a cracker, it began all over again, “Say cracker.”
He learned to ask for what he wanted, even in prayers.
As w said bedtime prayers, I urged him to repeat a simple blessing for each family member by name.
“Bless Mommy and Daddy.”
He echoed, “Mommy, Daddy,” but when I said, “Randy and Timmy,” he said, “Timmy an Timmy,” refusing to attempt the impossible R in Randy.
As I left his room one night, I heard him whispering into his pillow, “Wandy, Wandy, Wwrandy,” over and over. He could hear the difference and like the perfectionist he always has been, would not say it out loud until he had it right.
A few nights later, he tried it out loud during prayers. “WRandy an Timmy,” I smiled to myself. and went on with our short prayer time.
His speech improved. He even did some — as my mother used to call it – baby swearing.
Baby’s swear? Sure. With an R included.
The faint cry of a child in distress woke me one night. I followed the noise upstairs to his bed. Even after I turned on the light, I could not see him. But I heard him quite distinctly.
“Butter-jam! Butter-jam! Butter-jam!” Mad as a hornet with a fly swatter on its tail, he was rolled up in his blankets and caught between the bed and the wall.
I tugged and pulled him free. He quit spouting “butter-jam.” I held him until he calmed down and tucked him into bed.
He had learned to talk just fine.
As an adult, learning other languages has captured his attention as much as saying “Randy” did years ago. He says he knows the basics of four or five, all without any butter-jam phrases. We’ll find out for sure if her ever gets stuck again.