Summer Update: De-Minted Communications with A Two-Year-Old


When I ask “More meat?” he hears “Mint?”

When I ask “Want to go to Vermont?” he hears “Mint?”

And when I am running late and I place him on the bathroom sink counter while I continue to get ready, and he hands me my toothbrush smothered with a green gel-like substance, I think mint, as in toothpaste. And when I shove that toothbrush into my mouth and quickly discern that it is not toothpaste lining my teeth and gums but instead a strip of my husband’s antiperspirant/deodorant, I sputter and growl a four-letter word which sounds nothing like mint. This happened only once, last month, and Miles laughed and growled the bad word right back at me.

Speaking of which, Miles has one very sweet bad-sounding word in his growing vocabulary.
When I say "Fox?" Miles says a word that sounds like luck but begins with an F. We have a family here in our town whose last name is Fox and I insist now that Miles address the father as Mister Fox.

In early June I bought Miles some blue rain boots. For a week he called them boops and I refused to correct him. OK, confession: I encouraged it; I encouraged my two-year-old son, tender and new to this complex language of ours, to speak incorrectly. I referred to his boots as boops at every opportunity, and there were many that week because he insisted on wearing them almost daily during a 90-degree heat wave. To my chagrin and his credit, he corrected himself before the weather broke and ever since has called them boots.

Three weeks ago, my son and I were playing our own special game What Else Can Miles Hang From (Besides Mommy?). I had a brilliant idea. What if I brought the broom into the den and somehow balanced it between the chair and the couch? I pictured Miles having fun while improving his hanging and balancing skills.

As I imagined this, I barked, "Broom!" and I darted to the kitchen. Miles followed me, joyous, squealing, his right hand in a fist, his wrist twitching. I was intrigued, but not understanding the meaning of this peculiar happy dance. Then I heard him confirm with me, "Brrooooom? Brooom-brooooom?"

I soon realized he had an imaginary set of keys in his right hand, pretending to start a make-believe car. He and my husband play VroomVroom in which Miles gets to sit on Dad's lap behind the wheel of Dad's parked car, and play drive.

Poor Miles, his Mommy don't play that. I avoid the car, especially in summer. To see his face fall once I explained how Vroom is different than Broom, it was enough to make a good mom haul her only child out to her car and fake drive with him.

I, so eager to stay out of my car, instead tried to perk up my deflated son with one word: "Mint?"