It’s been awhile since I made any observations about the linguistic development of the wee lad.
It’s Christmas Eve morning. The tree is trimmed and glorious, resplendent with lights and memories. The yawning house stumbles down the hardwood stairs to gather in the kitchen. Bowls of cereal are poured. Juice is delivered in Disney-adorned cups. Eggs are cooking.
The wee lass, predictably, is whining. Her high-pitched annoyance tweaks the ears of the early-risen family and winces shoulders.
Several minutes pass. The girl’s diva-like shrills are unabated. And so the wee lad, his speech patterns learnt at the feet of a grand master or eloquence, takes a moment to remove his hands from his ears and shout across the table at his sister: “Damnit-boy, Elanor, stop it!”
Thus does the father spend his Christmas Eve both amused and in trouble.