From Dictionary.com:
miracle
\Mir"a*cle\, n. [F., fr. L. miraculum, fr. mirari to wonder. See Marvel, and cf. Mirror.] 1. A wonder or wonderful thing.
On Saturday Katie said her first word. It was "dog." I wasn't really sure if she was saying it, or if she knew what she was saying, but she kept saying it, and she said it often enough when Molly had come into the room or was approaching her, or when she heard dogs barking in the distance, that I am now a believer.
It doesn't sound exactly the way it should yet. So far it sounds like "dawwwwwww!" But when she says it, and when we say, "Yes, dog!" while pointing at the dog, she gets very excited, rocks back and forth from side to side, exhales and inhales excitedly, laughs, and smiles.
Yesterday morning I was sitting in her room, and she was standing up in her crib, rocking from side to side, and I called Molly into the room. "Molly! Molly dog! Come here, dog!" Molly came running into the room, and Katie said, "Dawwwwwwwwwwww!!!" and started laughing hysterically, like she just might faint from the head rush, and I said, "Yes, dog!"
And it was then I thought about that scene in The Miracle Worker. You know, the most important scene in the whole movie, where Helen Keller suddenly realizes that the sign for water equals that liquid pouring over her hand right that very moment, so then she realizes that things have names, and that if she can learn the words, she can communicate with other people, and then this look of utter amazement and joy crosses over Helen's face, because the world has suddenly become that much less of a puzzle to her?
That's what I thought of yesterday when I watched my baby daughter's face.
It's what babies spend all of their time doing, I guess, pretty much - trying to figure out this puzzle that is the world around them, trying to figure out what they can control (their own hands, for instance), what they can't (almost everything, if they are young enough), and how to tell the difference. It must be so thrilling to them, every time they learn something new that helps them to control or interpret their worlds.
Helen Keller had some exceptional circumstances to overcome, of course. As far as we know, Katie's health is perfect. It shouldn't really be surprising to me that she is learning to speak, because, barring exceptional circumstances, that is what people do. We learn to talk. And yet it seems to me that learning to speak is still a miracle, each and every time it happens, in the same way that it is a miracle each and every time that a new baby is born. It happens every day, every hour. It is still a miracle.
Later in the day, Katie started saying "cat," which she says much more clearly than "dog." She says "caaaaat," and the "t" at the end of cat is loud and precise (it reminds me of the way a choir director will tell you to emphasize the "t" at the end of a word in a song you're singing - it's really almost a "tah!"). She knows what this word means, too - she says it when she sees or hears one of the cats. "Cat!"
She has started imitating sounds, too, even when they don't mean anything to her. Yesterday I told her she had a toy, and after I repeated it a few times, she looked at me and said, quite seriously, "Toe. Wee." This morning after she drank her bottle, she burped, and I said, "Good burp. Good burp!" She immediately said, "Gah! Bah!" I'm sure she has no idea what "toy" and "good burp" mean, but just the fact that she is starting to imitate our speech is AMAZING to me.
I'm sure there will come a time when each new word from Katie will not thrill me. At some point, I won't be filled with awe and wonder to hear her say the word "dog" or "cat." But right now, each word is a miracle; every word out of her mouth is a wonderful thing. (I am so proud of her.)
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