by cheri sabraw
One of my grandsons, the one who is under the age of seven and above the age of five, is quite a card. The only problem is that when I tell him so, he replies,
” Gwam, what’s a cawd?”
No, he is not from Boston or the East Coast in any way. He is a home-grown Californian.
He came to visit last week for the entire weekend, the same weekend that I was hosting a dinner party for six. As he hung around the kitchen table, while I chopped onion and garlic, he tried to tell me a story of his trip to San Francisco’s Exploratorium.
“So, you see, Gwam, when Mom and I went to the Explowatoeum, I saw a schwaak.”
A what? I inquired.
Having taught English as a Second Language for four years when in my twenties, I have a keen ability to understand anyone of any nationality or age or gender speaking English.
This time, however, I stumbled.
“I saw a schwaak, ” Grandson repeated.
This frustrating cross-examination went on several more times.
Normally an easy-going little guy with a wry sense of humor, Grandson became agitated.
Finally, older brother looked up from his Kindle and rescued the day.
” Gramma, he saw a shark.”
” That’s what I said, screamed his brother, schwaaak!!!”
Yesterday, I received a phone call from my daughter. She called to tell me that she had signed said Grandson up for speech therapy. She delicately told her little son that every week for 1/2 an hour, he would be working on his speech, specifically his letter R’s. He crumpled into a writhing mess and screamed at the top of his lungs,
” Mom, you have wooned my life! Wooned it.”