I hear some singing from my two year old. We are on our morning commute. These short drives to and from work are my favourite conversation moments.
“ABCDEFG!” she sings. “Your turn, Mama!”
This sudden desire for an alphabet lesson is new. If I try to sing it, she usually tells me to stop.
The day before was the first time she’d ever showed interest. I’d tried singing the song on a little early Spring walk. We were enjoying the sun, going to the chicken coop to gather eggs. And this time after her emphatic “no!” I told her that knowing the alphabet was the first step in learning to read.
“Yes, Mama!” She agreed. And this is rare. She’s already decided I’m wrong 99% of the time.
“Did you know Mama also knows her ABCs in Ancient Greek?“
“Yeah, Mama! High five!” She says and holds up a little hand. She is the only person I’ve told this to who has at least pretended to be impressed.
I don’t know if this little chat the day before did anything (clearly it didn’t—but I can pretend), and yet the next day here she is singing, unprompted, the first bit of her ABCs.
Still, I was more surprised when she said, “Your turn, Mama”.
And so I sang the ABCs, in its entirety!
“Whoa!” she exclaimed.
I look back in the mirror, and I can see her little mouth forming an O. Her eyes wide, she opens her mouth and then takes her time with her reply—for emphasis? Or has she already learned condescension?
“Good job, Mama! Wow!”
I decide to take it for genuine awe.
“Thanks, Addy! Your turn!” I laugh.
“ABCDEFG! Tada!” she laughs—a little maniacally.