A secret is a knife

One of the many joys of having a child who talks -- beyond 'well NOW I can finally figure out what the heck is WRONG' -- is that they say some of the most bizarre things. The Boy has been talking well for a while now, and as he was one of those babies who babbled almost all day, almost as though he had a running narrative going, he now talks all day, and HAS a running narrative going. This is a strange thing to me; neither The Man or I are big talkers, and have spent many a very pleasant evening together on the couch watching something or doing our own thing, not talking. Early in my maternity leave I was quite happy to go about my day silently with my child strapped to me until I read something about child development that said that babies need to be talked to to learn, and so I started a running narrative ...

Oh. 

It's amazing how writing lets you figure these things out.

Anyway. Where was I?

Oh yes. Talking. We've had the usual stuff about "hey! there's a man!" and "Hey! There's a doggie!" while we're out walking, which provokes the inevitable smile from the passersby. So far we've managed to avoid the "That lady is very fat!" or "That man only has one arm!" or other comment that's slightly less appropriate. 

I had a "Noah pushed me off the climber and I fell down and cried and cried and cried." as well, after daycare one day, despite the fact that no one had told me he fell, and the child named Noah hadn't been there for two months at this point. (Further inquiry got me blank stares of bewilderment at the daycare ... I think he was either remembering an incident from long, long ago that wasn't outwardly traumatic, or he was imagining Very Well.)

And there are stories. Lots of stories. He has a great imagination, and tells me all kinds of things about how the kitty jumped into the bushes and the wind blew and he fell and cried and cried and cried (we had a theme on the 'cried and cried and cried' for a while, which I think the above incident was a part of). 

Lately the stories have all been about babies, because his BFF P just had a baby brother, and so this week's stories have inevitably been about "MY baby brother" and how he held the baby and it cried and it sat on his tummy, and it was nice. I figure that this is a good thing regardless, but I wonder just how much he and P TALK to each other. I guess two year olds communicate more than I thought. 

And then every once in a while he comes up with something quite insane. "at is a kind of cat" rings a bell. "Cod is a fish" is something that comes up from time to time, which I know, isn't insane, but it's a little strange after some silence in the car on the way home, with no mention (for days!) of cod OR fish, suddenly to hear such a statement piped from the backseat. 

Yesterday on the drive home he told me that he had a special box with a special message in it. I asked what the message was, and he said, very seriously, "A secret is a knife". I laughed, and told him that was very cryptic (yes, I did. This might be why he talks so much, we use strange words around him. It's just habit; I write for a living, it's my job to use exact terminology.)

And then I got to thinking ... you know ... that's really true. How many times have I found out secrets that have been really, really wounding? How many times have I kept secrets that would wound? I try not to, anymore -- I found it hurts me almost as much as it hurts the person I'm lying to. So ... yeah. 

I think perhaps I should pay more attention to his stories from here on in. They might just give me something to think about.