So here I am, on a beautiful southern Sunday afternoon, listening to my kids and our neighbor friend coloring in the other room. Their chatter turned to counting and then the boys were counting by fives. That's when I heard it: the dreaded "fahv" from my own sweet boy. I asked him to say five, which he did just fine, but when the counting started out again, so did the fahv. I have to assume this is because it's practiced out loud with the entire class, but I found myself saying the infamous phrase with a smile on my face, "Wyatt, it's not fahv, it's five." He laughed and so did I. I'll keep correcting it, though I know he'll turn out just fine, like his daddy, and in truth, it makes me awfully happy to see that each place we live leaves a little imprint on us all.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
What Goes Around
Jeff grew up a military child and lived in Valdosta, Georgia in his preschool/early elementary years. He remembers there being alligators, the mean dog that bit him and his mom correcting his pronunciation of "five" by saying, "Jeffrey, it's not fahv, it's five." We laugh about it because he's still convinced there's a gator in every body of water (every. like ponds, streams, lakes, puddles…), doesn't like Afghan dogs or those named Isis and has a few words in his repertoire that come out a tad southern (hill = heel and grandpa = graympaw) on occasion.
Posted by Stephanie at 10:46 AM