At the age of two

Photos to come, folks, I promise; for now, we're limited by a cap on our wireless bandwidth, and by a lack of ingenuity that may or may not be connected to Cleo's now-all-too-regular 5:30 a.m. awakenings. For now, though, I just want to brag on my two-year old a little bit - and, in doing so, to duly take my place in a long line of parents and physicians amazed by the capacities of the toddler's mind.

We all know of Mozart's precociousness, for instance, but the first volume of the venerable old Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, from 1817, features further stories of two-year-olds kicking it all extra special like on the keyboard. There was a young English boy last name of Crotch, for instance, who was so affected by music that he would desert his toys and even his meals when he heard a tune in the distance; he apparently then learned to prompt his father to play his favorite tunes by striking the first few notes on the family piano. And at the age of two years and three weeks, averred the local physician, this Crotch boy had taught himself to play the first part of God Save the King on the organ. All this, and he couldn't even talk.

Couldn't talk? Well, that's my opening right there. Because while Cleo still hasn't mastered, at two years and a week, even a note of God Save the King, she's been talking up a storm. And the things that come out are often jarringly relevant, or surprisingly composed. Just now, as I was putting her to bed, I asked her, as I often do, how old she is. Two, she said, as we've taught her to do. That's right, I responded, and how old is daddy? And, in a little voice, as clear as could be: Forty.

I've mentioned my age to her once or twice, but not in the last few days, and I may well have just become the first person ever to act with real delight at being told that they're forty. But, you say, surely she doesn't know what it means. And you're probably right; while the girl can coolly count to ten, forty is just a word, a pair of syllables, to her. Consider, though, this conversation that she and I had on the way home from school yesterday:

Me: Cleo, that’s a nice yellow car next to us. It would be a good car for you, I think: a little car for a little person.

Cleo: Cleo need key drive nice yellow car.

Me Well, yeah, I guess you would need a key to drive it.

Cleo: Cleo turn nice yellow car on go go go.

Admittedly, her syntax is a bit like E.T.'s. But E.T. was, like, hundreds of light years old, right? And could bring flowers back to life, yeah? Well, okay: Cleo can't do that yet. And she can't strike a golf ball cleanly, like a tiny Tiger. But we seem to have reached a point where conversation is no longer merely predictable, or singsongy; it's organic, and she can contribute, as well as repeat. And that's an exciting place to be.