Gah!

Some toys are not meant for general thrashing and throwing or being ridden over by Nik’s Little Tykes tricycle. Those toys reside in a large white basket which sits on top of the battered white armoire in the family room; the name really is so much more glamorous than the furniture ever was. Still, it has served us well in housing, first, office supplies in the days before Nik was born, then Nik’s myriad small medical supplies through the years. It now does double duty —triple, I suppose —holding a smattering of medical supplies, some kitchen items in the bottom drawer, and the basket perched on top.

It won’t be long before Nik can reach the basket and hook his slender fingers into the openings and topple it, sending books and small toys raining down upon his head. I watch his daily attempts to do just that and know it won’t be long before he no longer needs to ask for my assistance. Today, however, he gleefully grabs my hand and drags me to the armoire.

Patting his chest in a fervent request for something currently out of his ever-lengthening reach, Nik smiles and waits. I’m not sure what he wants so I ask him to “use your words” and “show Mommy what you want;” it is of no avail. I run through a mental inventory of what items usually reside in the basket. His current favorite is not there; I wonder if that’s what he wants —in spite of his having just tossed it over the gate into the kitchen.

I offer him the insert for the item; he smiles and pats his chest with greater urgency. We are playing a non-verbal game of “hot or cold” and my only clues are his face and his hand gestures. After an interminably long minute of this game, Nik suddenly changes his tack. He looks at me pleadingly, puts his palms together and then fans his hands open away from his body; this is how he signs open. Many of his signs have multiple meanings so I assume that he is, in fact, asking for his book.

I ask him with both words and signs, “Do you want your blue book?” Nik grins and pats his chest in the affirmative. I lean across the gate to retrieve the book. Nik squeals in delight and then tries to put the insert into the base.

Praising him for his good communication and helping skills, I reiterate in words and signs that Nik now has his blue book. “Book. Book,” I intone for him, slightly emphasizing the “k” sound so he doesn’t confuse it with another word such as “boot.”

Without missing a beat, Nik looks at me. “Gah. Gah,” he says with the identical inflection that I have just used. With a smile, he takes his beloved book and settles onto the sofa to read and play.

I’m fairly certain we’ve just experienced our first intentional verbal communication which doesn’t involve tears or hysteria. I could get used to this!

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