Language of the heart
August 12th, 2010 by Regina Brett
My grandson still hasn't picked a name for me. He either can't decide or he likes being a little rascal and teasing me by naming everyone in the world except me.
He just turned 17 months old and is a chatterbox. He can say "Up," "Aw done," "Mo peez," and "Tank oooh." Put a handful of nectarine slices on his high chair tray and he says, "Neck a reen." Give him some chunks of avocado, and he says, "Cah doh." But he won't say grammy, granny, gramma, or any other facsimile of grandma.
We've tried to trick him into it. We go around the table and say, "Say Poppa." The little guy complies. He'll name Da da, Ma ma, Luke, Ben, Joe, Adrienne (who he calls AD), pretty much everyone around the table and everything on the table. But when it comes to me, he just laughs. For a while I wondered if my name was "Ha Ha." Not that I would mind.
He does speak the language of love that has no words. We sat on the floor playing blocks yesterday when I stood to check something in the kitchen. He grabbed my toes and wouldn't let go. He tried to pull me back to him by clinging to my toes. And when I leave, he says, "Muh!" and blows me a kiss.
One day he'll reveal who I am to him by name, but for now, his heart knows, and that's enough.