"Mommy, I want my hayut."
I looked at my child, her hazle-toned eyes staring at me. Waiting. And waiting some more.
I looked around. Her what?
"Mommy," the tone was already hitting teenage levels. She was only three. How was that even possible?
I'm looking, honey, I'm looking.
The kitchen table? Maybe?
Is it here, sweetheart? A shake of the head. What about inside? More shaking.
I honestly have no clue what you're asking for child - I wish I did because that would help us avoid any sort of a meltdown and it would make mommy very happy ...
"My hayut, mommy. I want to go outside. I need my hayut."
Oh my sweet mother of G-d, her HAT!
Hang on, baby. Mommy will get your hat for you.
If you don't know me well enough yet - you'll know that I in no way whatsoever have myself a Southern accent. We've been here since 2006, and I can adjust my dialect with the best of them. (I once spent less than three days in England and seriously picked up the tone when speaking with people around me. I kid you not.) But I do not have a Southern tone at all. None whatsoever. I even laugh at myself when I say y'all, as it just doesn't flow. I call my daughter ma'am sometimes because it just comes out - I swore it never would - but it does - and it still sounds ridiculous. So when I sit here and listen to the sounds that come out of my child's mouth, I am often amazed at how Southern she sounds. She's a Southern belle of her own making, and her New Yorker momma and her New England-Maine-ah daddy ain't got nothin' to do with how she uses her words.
Now I just can't wait til she starts going to school. Whooiee. We're in trouble then!