Sacha is a bonafide chatterbox. I don’t know if it was the speech therapy or his finally being ready to talk, but the kid does not shut up from dawn until dusk. Sometimes, Tony and I just stare at each other, gaping mouthed, amazed that he can speak so much without sparing even a second to take a breath.
Sometimes this is a good thing: he tells himself stories, clasping his hands together on his lap and staring off into the distance saying “Once upon time, ay-cay-no (volcano) EXPLODE EVERYWHERE!” Before he sleeps, he now says his prayers by himself (a mixture of two prayers that we have been saying since he was 8 months old): “Faddah, Son, Ho-wee Spiit Amen. Sun shines, I in bed, rest sweepy head. Keep me safe frew night, I wake morning wight, Amen. Faddah, Son, Ho-wee Spiit Amen!”
He has also decided that his name is no longer Sacha, but rather Chicken Little. In fact, if you address him as Sacha, he will either ignore you or spurt while shaking his head: “Mine name Sacha ANYMORE! Mine name Chicken Little!
There are the WHY questions, which I often cannot answer to his full satisfaction: Why Maddahs have boobs? Why Kees cry? Why mine name Sacha? Why Daddy go work? Why we need money? Why rain outside? Why peepee come out mine penis? Why Kees good baby? Why Daddy good daddy? Why Daddy name Tony? Why Maman name Sarah? Why need say prayers? Why Auntie Teewah go way? Why me like bacon?
I often think that I am shortchanging his little curious mind when I cut the crap and give him a quick, boring answer “Because bacon is yummy. Because Grandma liked the name Tony.” I have so much to do, and the questions are so non-stop that I cannot wrap my head around creating a reasonable teacher-like answer to satisfy him. Or, for that matter, spend enough time with him doing all the 2-year-old things he wants to do, since I have another son on the verge of walking and demanding a lot of my time using my fingers as a balance apparatus while Sacha plays play-doh by himself or pours himself some “coffee” (juice) and goes to “work” (his bedroom) to “help people.” There’s only so much I can do for two kids at the same time. And I feel guilty that I cannot do more. Or that I lack the energy to do it.
Then last night, before bed, Sacha leaned in and told Tony: Maman is good mudder.
I guess I need not worry anymore. Sacha said so.