Having a four-year-old means learning a language as you go along. I was putting Maia to bed tonight when she sat up the dark and intoned: "Sometimes I don't have any interest in what I want to say."
Yeah, just a little freaky.
"Oh?" I said. "Um. What do you mean?"
"Do you mean sometimes you feel like what you say isn't interesting?"
I wait. Then:
"And den sometimes I'm talkin' and I feel like I run out of words."
I'm really not quite sure where to go with this, so I sit quietly.
"Sometimes I talk and den I don't want to say anyting anymo."
"Well, that's OK. What's nice about our brains is that if we want words, we can make them up."
Shrug. "Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to make them up."
"How does that make you feel? Sad?"
She shakes her head. Ponders.
I say, "We can always try. Even though I know sometimes we feel things or think them and don't know what to say about them."
A slow nod. "Yah. And when I look at my orange cup when it's nighttime out, it looks maroon. Or, maroonish. Good night, Mama."
Um. OK. Good night.