Miru gets more expressive every day. Her vocal range resembles that of ever more extraordinary songbirds, she can stick out her tongue, pick her father’s nose or anything else that fits her fingers, she can stand for several consecutive minutes, smiling proud of her accomplishment, eat with a spoon, decorate her surroundings with food using the same spoon, and open the door of the laundry machine. For the conventional observer of our toddler’s development, there are two questions that need to be answered from this mirthful diversity of rapidly accelerating cognitive skills: 1) does she talk? and 2) does she walk? No and no.
Unimpressed by that mechanistic tally, Miru’s parents see things a little differently. Of course she’s talking – she does it all the time.
“Pujapuja pfffrt a-há pujipu pfffrt a-há? Tata.” This is Mirunese for “Is the artificial distinction between talking and not-yet talking rationally defensible? No.”
And she walks when we hold her hands, disarming every person she encounters with her smile. She really likes walking, and her leg muscles are strong enough (says someone who has been repeatedly kicked in the face by her). It is only a matter of days or weeks and Miru will walk on her own.
Here in Madrid more and more people seem to be enamoured with Miru. We haven’t caused major traffic congestions yet, but a modest group of people gathered around her at the entry of a supermarked today, commenting on her being “maravillosa” as she gibbered adorably.
It’s such a joy to live with her, and I am grateful, not only for the fact that we all survived last week’s fiery hiccup in our journey unscathed, but simply because she exists.