There’s this new little, two-year-old girl who’s been coming around to our place, a one Miss Cassia SomethingOrOther. Every time she comes, she leaves me in such shame, such a blubbering mess I really don’t know what to do with myself.
It’s customary in Lopit to shotgun any passerby with questions of “Where are you coming from?” and “Where are you going?”
Well, said Cassia has thrice come to my door, demanded my attention and—upon me giving it to her by coming to the doorway—completely befuddled me.
I come to the door, and am hit with an authoritative, “Where’d you come from?”
Um. For whatever reason, I’m tongue-tied. Surely, she knows I’ve come from the very kitchen stool or stove she’s called me from. All I can do is point weakly.
Trickier yet, before I can recover, comes the second of the blows: “Where are you going?”
Errr. I’m just… I don’t know…. You called me here… I’m not going anywhere. (No idea how to say that in Lopit.)
Never in Lopit have I been so intellectually outmatched. And this, by a toddler. A master of conversation, of manipulation.
I’ll never cease to be amazed by the fact that, though the children carry with them rarely even clothes, they’re quite abundantly outfitted with personality—which often presents me with precious little Lopit moments that I’m sure only I find so very amusing…
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