Over the past few months, Zoey has been making up her own language. It is getting more frequent and pervasive every day. What at first was just a word here and there has now become entire songs and conversations. I should probably find this adorable. I should revel in the creativity and intelligence it demonstrates. Zach assures me it is both normal and healthy. He seems to truly enjoy it. Me? Not so much. In fact, if I’m being honest…It. Is. Driving. Me. Insane.
Allow me to share a slice of my day with you, in a land where I don’t speak the native language:
Scene: The usual dinner song-and-dance of trying to get Zoey to consume enough calories to sustain life for the next twelve hours until breakfast.
Me: Zoey, do you want to eat a bite of rice next, or broccoli?
Zoey: I want the binga-bop.
Me: I don’t know what that means.
Zoey: It means waddley-doo.
Me: I still don’t know what that means.
Zoey: I want the riiiiiiiccccee (emphasis on the exasperation in her voice)
<and cut scene>
Now replay that scenario about fifteen times every hour all day long. About everything. What clothes do you want to wear? Pigtails or ponytail? What do you want for breakfast? You get the idea. All questions are met with gibberish and a conversation at least three times longer than needed ensues.
Add in all the other conversations that aren’t direct questions yet still consist of Zoey-talk and I think you can begin to understand why I want to ram my head through a wall by lunchtime.
So…any insight into how long this delightful quirk of childhood lasts? Better yet, anyone know a good translator?