Helena's favourite word: bibliothèque. We don't go very often together, but she goes about once a week with her daycare group. Some mornings I hear this word a hundred times, broken down into syllables and then at breakneck speed, tying up her tongue around the "l"; a whisper in my ear and a public broadcast through the paper towel tube megaphone; in her baby voice and in her monster voice. One word affirms that she is her mother's daughter.
Helena riffs on green. "Vert. Il y'a trois 'verts.' Vert, verre, et ver. Oh, et verre. Quatre 'verts.'"
That's (respectively): green, glass (receptacle), and worm. And glass (material).
Yet to be identified by her: "vers" (verse) and "vers" (toward).
"Il n'y'a pas de trou. That's true. It's true there's no trou."
We've been watching the animated Cat in the Hat, and singing: "Cat. Hat. In French: chat, chapeau. In Spanish he's a gato in a sombrero." Naturally, this leads to Helena's own improvisations about a gato in a gateau.
Helena no longer corrects my French pronunciation or makes fun of my accent (although I'm certain this little entertainment has years of life still ahead). On the other hand, she's only just realized her father has an accent when he speaks English.
There's a reason I'm the one who usually gets stuck with reading Dr Seuss. But when Helena puts The Cat in the Hat in J-F's hands, he complies. When first we meet Thing One and Thing Two, Helena gets angry. "Pas 'ting,' Papa." 'Ting' is the sound phasers make. Of course, Helena has a little pronunciation difficulty of her own. "C'est 'fing,' Papa. 'Fing!'"
Helena babbles. Sheer and utter nonsense. Not simply to fill a silence. It's a game. It started with pipi and caca being used to replace other everyday words. Then strings of nonsense syllables within barely identifiable sentences. Now strings of sentences, with inflections and pauses and a face full of expression, but otherwise meaningless (to me). If I dare ask for clarification, or for a confirmation of my haphazard guess at interpretation, she retorts, "Mais, je peux dire qu'est-ce que je veux." (I can say what I want.) By which I know Helena to mean: "Words mean what I want them to mean."
"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less."
"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."
"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master — that's all."