My youngest daughter, Kerrington, is twenty-one months old. Even at such a tender age, she already has hundreds of words in her verbal toolbox. The only catch is that we don't understand the vast majority of them.
She doesn't seem to mind as she happily babbles from the back seat. I imagine that she's telling everyone in the van about what she'd like for lunch, how much she loves her Brown Bear, why she enjoys afternoon naps, and how she wishes we had a puppy, even though all we hear is oooh-ghee baaaa-ha ma-ma-puppy-da-ughahaaa-da-heeee!
I have no accurate translation for the language of Kerrington.
Maybe it's not necessary. Because in the middle of her long-winded stories, I can simply look at her, smile, and interject, "And I love you too, baby."
Because I'm pretty sure that oooh-ghee baaaa-ha ma-ma-puppy-da-ughahaaa-da-heeee also means "Mommy, there's really no one quite like you, and I love seeing your face every time I wake up."
No, the language of Kerrington needs no translation.