It must be terribly frustrating to know so much, and be able to express so little, and to feel so adamant about what you want. Even though Allie’s vocabulary is growing by leaps and bounds, her emotions are still way ahead of what she’s able to satisfy on her own. This morning I came downstairs to a bawling Allie. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Cereal,” she sobbed, barely coherent. “Cereal.”
Mr. W said, “She asked for cereal, I GAVE her cereal. She won’t eat it now. She ran away from it.”
“Cereal!” Allie cried.
“Here, cereal,” Mr. W offered. Allie turned away from it, cried again, doubled over in apparent distress. “I don’t understand what she wants,” he said, annoyed.
“She wants to feed herself,” I explained.
He offered her the bowl and spoon, she took it, put a spoonful of raisin and bran flakes in her mouth. I put her in her high chair, and she pointed at her new stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear that the stepkidlet had bought for her yesterday (departure gift; the stepkidlet has left for Europe for the summer). Mr. W picked up Pooh and placed him on the corner of the table closest to Allie but out of reach, saying, “Here, Winnie the Pooh is going to sit right here and watch Allie eat.” Allie dropped the cereal spoon, crying again in distress. So after I put on her bib, clicked in her tray, put the bowl on the tray, put the spoon back, I put Pooh Bear on the edge of the tray next to her and she immediately stopped crying and started eating again. Small demands, but she wants them SO, SO badly.

She definitely understands way more than she’s able to express, and until that catches up, I’ve read that this frustration is normal. Poor thing.

Over the weekend, Mr. W and Allie were looking at photos together. I heard him say, “See the waterfall?”
Allie’s reply: “Boom.”
I explained to Mr. W that her word for “fall,” as in “fall down,” is “boom.” If she tripped and we asked what happened, she’d point to the accident site and say, “Allie boom.” Or if we tell her, “Be careful, don’t climb [on the furniture],” “Sit down when you’re on the couch,” she’d reply with, “Boom.” That means, “I understand, I’m to be careful so that I don’t fall.” So of course, now Allie is saying, “Wa-wa boom.” We’ll have to remember that that’s her word for “waterfall.”

When we got home from work yesterday, Jayne asked me, “So was that stir-fried vermicelli with pumpkin today?”, referring to the new food item we’d packed for Allie’s lunch.
It was Chinese stir-fried glass-noodles (or rice noodles), but to make things more understandable, that’s what I’d called it on Allie’s food log.
“Yeah,” I told her. “My parents made it yesterday. She eats anything my parents make.” (We’d visited my parents on Sunday afternoon and my mom had made it for lunch, and we’d packed some for home.)
Allie, overhearing, said, “Gong-gong. Po-po.”
It took me a second to realize Allie knew we were talking about her grandpa (gong-gong) and grandma (po-po), even tho we’d never referred to them as anything but “my parents.” She also knew the dish as “noodles,” not as “vermicelli,” so I have no idea how Allie understood what we were talking about. I was impressed.

I made a quinoa “fried rice” with chopped carrots, peas, corn and turkey last night. Allie wanted to look in the pot (“up up puh puh puh” with her arms raised at me, and pointing at the pot on the stove) and I thought she’d see the finished product and say, “Rice,” since to me, it’s now a product called “fried rice.” But instead, peering in she said, “Corn! Peas!” Funny, seeing things as sharp, separate components in the limited experience of a child. I guess this is why kids pick out bits and pieces of a food (like pizza) they’ll eat or not eat instead of just taking in the whole.