Yesterday we took Benedict and Sophia to their 2-month and 18-month doctor’s appointments, respectively. I went in to work late so Melanie wouldn’t have to juggle three kids by herself, including two kids getting immunization shots. Whew, I hate watching them get those. I feel like Judas everytime the doctor or nurse sticks them with a needle and my child turns to me in tear with accusing eyes as if to say, “How can you stand by and allow this?”
So, the doctor asked her usual questions about Sophia’s development, including how many words does she know. “Does she know 10 words?” Melanie and I laughed. Oh, more than that certainly. “Twenty, 25?” Oh yes, at least. The doctor seemed impressed. I puffed up with pride at my brilliant progeny,
Later, Melanie counted up all the words that Sophia knows; not just words she parrots but that she can use in context, and came up with at least 100 words.
I was tellikng my co-worker, Anna, about this, not to be one of those prideful parents who boast of their child’s skills, mind you. After all, kids develop at their own rates, and if my child seems advanced, et cetera, etc.
Anna proceeded to tell me of a friend of hers who has a one-year-old child who is so advanced I swooned. This one-year-old—-I can hardly believe it—is … potty trained! Oh what use are words compared to that?!
I told Anna, “I’d trade 30 words for potty training.” Potty training! At one!
Melanie brought me down to earth later. She reasoned that a potty-trained one-year-old must use the free-standing pot, not the one that sits on the regular toilet. That means it must be cleaned after each use, which is a way dirtier job than just changing a diaper. So I stand corrected. I’ll keep the 30 words and diapers and be happy if we potty train by 3 like Isabella. Three! That’s advanced, right?
