A bogan by any other name

Its all about the words.

The past cupla weeks have seen the language quotient race forwards in leaps and bounds with seemingly a new word or three every day.

And ontop of that is the level of understanding - both ways.

Case in point. And case of "we're not quite getting all our words right just yet".

There we were having tea - an ever traditional Aussie meat and three (ok, five) veg.

"Jew!" said the boy, meaning juice...
So we gave him his water (even though he knows the word water, but who's to argue).
"Saw" said the boy, meaning sauce...
So against our better judgment we gave him some sauce; a drop on his meat sufficing.
"Towss!" said the boy, which ordinarily means toast.
Which was a problem.

"Errr... we have no toast Michael."

"TOWSSS!!"

"No... there's no toast here Michael. Perchance a carrot?"

"TOWWSSS!!!!!!!" he screamed, as he clenched his little fists of rage and started to quiver and spit phlegm like some manic third world dictator losing a valid UN-observed election, while gesticulating wildly in the direction of mums plate.

Mum offered him some steak. It was batted away.

"TTTOWWWS!!" (and more frustrated pointing).
Mum offered him some bread. He screwed up his face. Ectoplasm started to form...

"TTTTOOWWWWS!!!!!"
We were surely entering the popping a foofer-valve territory of frustration.

Mum looked past her plate and saw the only thing left on the table. Some butter.

"Butter?"

Acceptance.
Silence.
Joy.

"Errr... I think you meant butt (butter) Mike" suggested mum.
"Well i guess toast does have butter on it..." offered dad.
Mike just licked the Western Star off his bread.
And looked at his parents like they were idiots.

Having stated that his language is occasionally mixed in meaning, sometimes we're equally worried we've bred a pedant.

Once again, there we were having dinner, when the lad started making the "I'm full" motions.
(i.e., slapping his food instead of eating it and begging for a blueberry.)

Fair enough, dinner done.

"Put your plate on the table Michael" said dad.

Upon which Mike grabbed his plate, tipped it on end pouring the remaining foodstuffs all over his high chair tray with some overshoots onto the floor, and carefully placed the now-uncluttered-by-food plate on the table.
Then looked at dad with a job-well-done face.

"Well you did only say put the plate on the table" noted Mistress P.
Right you are.

This could become somewhat tiresome.

Almost as much as the current craze for the repeated use of the word "car".
Said when he sees one parked on the street.
In the newspaper (don't let him near the Drive section).
On the nappy box.
Printed on his shirt.
In the Green Eggs and Ham book - now that it a sign of intelligence; looks more like a mangled shoe with donuts for wheels.

Car; car; car; car.
(Which often means he's seen 4 cars - plurals are yet to be attempted.)

And if you dare let him inside one... well, he's like a pig in poo.
Lights on. Lights off.
Hazards on. Hazards off.
Mirrors swiveled.
Indicator stalk clicked.
Centre console emptied.
4WD engaged.
And door demanded to be shut...
"DDOOOOORRR!!!"

If you have followed previous posts, you'll now realise we have a chick-chasin, beer-swillin', pie+sauce munchin', hard-rock lovin', petrol-headed son.
Oh. My. Gawd.
We've bred a bogan.

Ok... finally, the Mike vocab, which we decided we'd better write down fast cos he's learning too many new ones to keep track of. Here goes...

mummy daddy nana papa home 'sgo! (lets go) dog cat pool bath kick towss (toast) jew ( juice) grace (grapes) saw (sauce) froo (fruit) goo (yoghurt) nana (banana) butt (butter) cheese sore zip cream suit telly bottle car-car-car door light light-on! butt (button) polly (the dog) book hi seeya bye bird lala (koala) no horsey kiss ear nose hair toe chin eye hug duck ball bear Jill Ray Paul Blair Mel Grace Archie Lily Jackie Goggle(Michael) shoe water peg mine sock park willy wee poo pen pa(plug) oww!(ouch) bin teeth beep-beep pea down uh-oh! towel ham hat oh-dear! bus bubby(baby) sha(sharp) too-wat!(too hot) two-three spoon fork all-gone!
= 90 words!

Did we also mention we're equally (well, almost) proud of his first wee in the loo??

Ok, just a few drips while sitting on the kiddie seat, but it counts. It hit the water. Its flowed off to Werribee and probably has a banded stilt wallowing in it as we speak.

His first toilet wee.

Wow.

Mygll

What in the wide wide world of sports is a "gogggle"???

(Well, apart from something Biggles would wear?)

At least thats what we've been wondering for the past few months as the wee lad keeps announcing "gogggle" this and "gogggle" that, everywhere a gogggle gogggle.

Till Mistress P hit on it this week.

Its him.
Master M.
The Lord of the manor.
Yes; Michael.

See this is the problem with Strine. "Mm-eye-ck-alll" it may well be in theory, but machine-gunned out of an Aussie mouth it does indeed come out a bit more like:
"My-gll"
...which sure enough has "g's" and "l's" and all sorts of sounds that in a young and phonetically-adventurous mind can easily convert into "gogggle".

So Gogggle it is.

Even if dad would prefer Google. Shares.

(Is self realisation the final step in becoming a fully fledge person??)

Of course after the weekend just gone his name could indeed be Casanova.

As is usual for the young man he's been charming the laydees, only this time one more his own age.

A family trip to Sandy Point for the (in)famous and traditional Melbourne Cup windsurfing long weekend had us staying in the house in which A&P were married, and in which there was a little girl some 2.5 years old, but who didn't have much hair.

"Bubbie!" announced Master M.
"No Mygll, she's not a baby, shes older than you..."
"Bubbie!"proclaimed Mike.

Oh well... Bubbie it was. And they got on like a house on fire, chasing each other about, showing each other the horseys in the paddock behind, and then eventually... their first hug.

It was cuter than a cupful of kittens.

Only surmounted by their evening escapades.

Some whacker put on music and said to the two young 'uns "What about a dance?", clearly hoping for a bit of a floorshow.

On cue, Bubbie and Mygll joined hands and boogied the night away, not unlike John Travolta/Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease.
Minus the heels.
And weird girl-afro/vaseline bodgie-do.

While this is all pretty funny stuff and truly warranted a video-camera, in reality it's pretty damn amazing, as we haven't actually seen real one-on-one play from the lad as yet.

Yeah, theres been the odd combined book reading, or tussle over a Thomas the tank engine, and even a few chases around the couch followed by a fair whack in the head one way or the other, but this was real live interaction between humans that didn't end in tears.

Its almost more than you get from dad.

But self naming and gen-ew-ine social interaction are not the only firsts of the past cupla weeks.

We've also had the first "sentence".

After scratching his foot on the ground the lad sat down, bent his leg round like some Indian swami to look at his feet, and announced:

"Toe sore."

Yup.. thats it.
Its not exactly Shakespeare, but as a first sentence it had a noun and an adjective and sure enough beat the hell out of him just bawling like a baby over a stubbed toe.

Which by all rights he should have done (but didn't, or at least only briefly at worst) when he got the other sort of tow pain.

Towball pain.

Right on the head.

Now for anyone whose ever barked a shin on a towball, you'll know how much that can hurt. (Second only to a papercut and surely now in common or garden variety usage at Guantanamo.) Imagine doing it to your head.
Doesn't bare thinking about really...

Much like his other first.

His first poo in the bath.

Was just like the pool scene out of Caddyshack.
(Sorry, we didnt quite have time to get the camera for thatta one.)