Annika, who is the sweetest baby in the universe, does something that makes me feel like my head is about to explode in the manner of old cartoons--a bundle of dynamite strapped to my hat. When she wants something--another tomato, to be picked up, to propel herself headfirst onto the floor from the kitchen counter--she emits a high-pitched shriek that could (may have?) shatter glass.
It is crystal clear that Annika is shrieking because she cannot talk yet. In other words, she is using the shrieks to communicate. Although I have been trying not to reward the shrieks with attention, and have been working on modeling language for her to use to get what she wants, she is not yet 1, and it will be a while before she can actually say, "Mama, could you please peel another clementine for me?"
In the meantime, she will shriek. And I will try to find some kind of meditation technique to keep my blood pressure from rising to a dangerous level each time she does it. And I will keep thinking about how much her shrieking--and the fact that while I can sometimes suss out what she wants, so painfully often I cannot--reminds me of something Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "We live amid surfaces and the true art of life is to skate well on them." Does this mean that Emerson believed at some point--as we acquire language, leave childhood behind us--we surrender to the idea that we will never, truly, make ourselves understood?
I reject this notion.
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