Happy talk

The other repetitive musical event of the past weekend was the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” That same not-to-be-named person had comforted B by singing it to her during the previous week, and the short “we all live…” phrase (“ee ah ih”) became a frequently-voiced demand. We eventually simply put the whole thing on iTunes to repeat over and over. And over. (At least until we got the signal and switched to Big Bird mariachi. And so on, back and forth.)

Like all children, sweet B has developed her own pronunciations for things—all, of course, terminally cute to a grandparent. My favorite is for yogurt, which she loves. “Yoda,” she pronounces, and is shortly thereafter swathed in bib and smeared with the stuff. Good it seems to taste.

Another word in which the “D” sound takes the place of a more difficult one is chai, which B’s mother habitually drinks, and which B very much likes to sip. I’m told that the other day, she ran up to H, pointed delightedly up at her mug, and shouted, “Die, mama, die!” I’m quite sure a short shock was followed by hysterical laughter, a sweeping up of the B, much hugging and kissing…and a sip of die.

H is back to work now, long hospital hours and nowhere near enough time with A and sweet B. But she had a good short holiday, I think. It was, as always, a profound joy to have her here, assuming what has been her normal pose at rest since she learned to read.

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