Lost in Translation (or, All Aboard the Potty Train)

Calvin sporting his new hat from Auntie Ellen...

Scott accepting a cup of hot tea from Audrey, who got a new plastic tea set the other day and knows a lot about the importance of hot, caffeinated beverages for a tyke so small.


The vagaries of our language become much clearer when you live with someone who is just learning to put it all together. Every other utterance from Audrey this week is "What's this called?" And she'll listen with rapt attention while you repeat the new word, whatever it is-- thermometer, casserole, stop sign-- and you can just about see the new etchings on her little brain. And sometimes, what we say doesn't make sense. Or rather, it does make sense, but not the sense that we intended. I said to Scott this morning, with a heavy sigh, that it looked like Audrey would be closer to her third birthday than her second by the time she was fully potty trained. And down there at knee-level, Audrey snapped to attention. "Where's the potty train?" she asked, holding up a section of her wooden train tracks.

Yes, the potty train. That would be the one that's not leaving the station anytime soon at our house, even though we have all boarded, with a crate full of pull-ups and Tic-Tac rewards, and that maniacal conductor who is always exclaiming, "Good job! Let's go check for pee again! What a big girl you are! Hooray!" What a moron. Can someone just tell her to take a seat, please?