Sometimes the phrases that come out of my children’s mouths astound me, but there is nothing that causes me to raise an eyebrow more than Gwen’s occasional accent. Ever since she really began talking in full sentences, she has had a little bit of a southern ‘twang’ to some of her words.
As time marches on, I find myself thinking that those New Age people might be onto something with their theories of past lives. You see, we have come to believe that in her last life, Gwen was a southern gal. Otherwise, I have no idea why at the age of two and a half she would say the following, “Mawwwma, your pullin’ mah haaayah!” Then there was the night she proclaimed, “Awww, Mawwma, your fixin’ mah suppah?!” Um, Yes. Yes I am Gwen and we’re not having grits.
Last night, as I attempted to sleep off the puke filled day I spent with Kate, Dave woke up to hear someone descending the darkened staircase. Thinking that Gwen might be off on another midnight wine tasting, he hopped out of bed to intervene. According to Dave, he looked over the railing and called her name.
Dave: “Gwen…where are you going honey?”
Gwen: “Where’s the pahty, Mawma?”
Clearly the kid is either sleep walking or reliving her prior life as a southern debutant party animal. Either way, we now have an explanation for her nocturnal wine consumption.
As we chuckled about it the next day, we remembered that Joe did the same thing when he was three. One afternoon we decided to bring him swimming at the YMCA in Brighton. He was excited to go and stopped jumping up and down on the couch long enough to say with a succinct brogue, “Don’t forget me swimmin’ knickers, Ma.” He had suddenly morphed into a tiny Irishman right there in front of our eyes.
I can’t wait to hear what part of the world Kate comes from.
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