I love words. Always have. I was one of those nerdy kids who hid under the covers late at night gleefully reading by the glow of a flashlight. Stories whisked me away to magical lands like Oz and Arabia. My nighttime passport allowed me to ride on Huck’s raft and Hook’s boat, cook on Marmee’s stove, and solve crimes with Nancy Drew.

So just like an athlete daydreams about his son learning to throw curve balls, I had imagined David, my only child, falling in love with words. Of course, first he had to learn to talk. But wouldn’t it be fun! How I anticipated his metamorphosis from an infant communicating with caveman-like grunts and unintelligible utterings to a child who would speak in sentences.

 I contemplated the future: David’s expanding vocabulary would lead to words which became questions, which eventually segued into short conversations. Soon we’d be reading together. Not War and Peace, certainly, but Goodnight Moon and Mary Poppins would do just fine. A few years later, mother and son would be huddled over crossword puzzles. We’d lie on the living room floor surrounded by dictionaries comparing the definitions of “butterscotch” and “caramel” in Webster’s and the Oxford English Dictionary’s (2^nd edition, of course).

 Meanwhile David’s “Aaaaaagoooooo”s and “eeeeeeeeee”s increased. He began to babble incessantly. I couldn’t wait for him to really start speaking. I yearned to teach him to embrace words, treasure words, love words.

Suddenly it began. Around 14 months.  “B” words. Not what I’d expected: the inevitable “ma-ma,” and “da-da.” “BALLOON!” he shouted one day as I handed him a red balloon. He understood! I could tell from the gleam in his eyes that he comprehended that the bobbling red helium-filled sphere had a name, and that name was “Balloon.”

 A few days later as we romped in the yard dipping tiny wands into soapy plastic bottles, his eyes sparkled as he said, “BUBBLES.” Almost giggly with excitement, I bent over and took him in my arms. He nestled against my shoulder. Life was perfect.

 A week later, “BALL!” He crowed with pleasure as he ran toward his beloved soccer ball and kicked it into the neighbor’s yard.

 I was delighted. “B” words were fine. If I’d only called him “Bob,” he could have already said his name!

But then came ‘No.’ He got stuck on “No” for months. He said, ‘No’ when he meant ‘No,’ and ‘No’ when he meant ‘Yes.’

For an emphatically affirmative answer, he’d nod, and then declare, “Yes No, Mommy.”

When asked,  “Honey, is that a ‘Yes No’ or a ‘No No?’” David’s brow would furrow, and he’d yell, “NO, NO, NO!” I began using sign language and gestures. Anything to avoid that ubiquitous “No.”

Soon came comical misnomers. Grammatical problems anyone learning English might experience: why “feet” instead of “foots” or  “sheep” instead of “sheepses?” Before long I understood that his command, “I want some sip!” translated into “I’m thirsty,” and “Turn on the bright,” meant “Get the flashlight.”

One day I coughed. When David, now three, looked at me with concern, I tried to reassure him by saying, “It’s just a frog in my throat.” He frowned, and then asked, “A real frog, Mommy? Or a toy frog?” With a smile, I realized that I was no longer the most literal person I knew.

David’s vocabulary grew quickly, and soon he became an expert at mangling words: That beloved Italian pasta called Bah-sketti. “Look at those men-ses!” he’d command when passing a construction site.

My idyllic daydream about our shared love of language faded as David began to argue that I was wrong about the pronunciation of words I’d used since my own childhood. Before this, I’d never fully understood how much I hate being contradicted. I’d dig my fingernails in my hand and try not to roll my eyes as he “taught” me to enunciate the sunny color named “Lellow.” Gently, I repeated, “YELL-ow, honey, Say it like this: Yell-ow.” He looked at me pityingly, then insisted, “No, Mommy! LELL-ow!!”

Woe be it to the foolish woman who points out his errors. Nothing brings on a temper tantrum quicker than corrections from Mommy.