His delivery of this message is in ‘motor mouth,’ robot mode. I dive onto the carpet next to him, a curled nak.ed prawn. I place the towel in position and seek further information.
“Does your tummy hurt lovey?” “Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea!” I place a palm on his stomach and bring an ear closer to see if there’s any gurgling. “Coldie, coldie, coldie,” he squeaks. I feel his forehead for a fever. “Coldie, coldie, coldie,” he squalks. I think perhaps my hands are cold rather than he is hot, but maybe not? I run his diet through my inventory checker in case I have inadvertently poisoned him. This seems so unlikely as my little neophobe is still stuck on 17 foods. It is next to impossible to imagine that he might have added poison to his diet without me noticing. There again, if you only eat 17 things, perhaps number 18 would be poisonous whatever it was, just for sheer shock value of novelty?
“What it is?” “What is what dear?” I nibble my lip. “Er……dah ‘Eureka’?” “Um Eureka means…..sort of….. ‘wow, look what I’ve discovered,’ sort of a thing, or it’s a place in Northern California, and probably elsewhere come to think of it.” I wonder where else it is, as a huge burp erupts from my son. “Oopsie. Sorry my body.” Excellent instant response. Hallelujah! “Ooo what good manners you have dear.” “Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea! Eureka! I’ve got diarrhea!” his delivery is ‘sing song’ mode. I am uncertain if this is a good sign or a bad sign? Has delierum set in? “What it is?” “What is what dear?” “Dah ‘diarrhea’?” “You mean you don’t have diarrhea?” “I don know?” “What don’t you know?” Somehow that didn’t come out quite right. “I don know if I am have dah diarrhea beCOZ I don know what dah diarrhea is being!” “What do you think it is being….er……I mean….what do you think ‘diarrhea’ is?” “I fink it is 3.” “3? Do you mean three syllables?” “Yes. ‘Dye’ ‘a’ ‘rea’…..see….three!” I now have 48 hours to remove this word from his lexicon before the start of school. “It is dah perfect.” “You think!” I have news for you matey! If you think you’re going to go around repeating this you’ve got another thing coming! “It is be my new song.” Not on your nelly! “Maybe we can make a new song, a better son, the best song.” I wonder if he can detect the desperation in my voice. “No fanks. It is dah perfect one. Dah 3, dah 3, dah 3.”
He’s right of course, when you listen to the syllables of the whole sentence, it is a unique chorus, a refrain that I shall have to retrain.