Considering the fact that both Jeff and I were both painfully shy growing up, and continue to be, for the most part, mutes, we are continually amazed at how much our little Wesley talks. We always know where Wesley is, because he trails a fizzle of noisy vocal exclamations wherever he meanders (which usually isn't farther than speaking distance, so that Mom or Dad can answer his questions). A day home alone with Evan, on the other hand, is the total opposite. Every once in a while we jump up in a panic, and ask, "Where's Evan?" and have to go hunt him down, only to discover him happily-and quietly-playing with his toys somewhere. After bouts of Wesley's non-stop chatter, I find myself washed in guilt after I utter things such as, "Wesley, can you try to stop talking for 5 minutes? I can't hear myself think!" and the other awful parental expression that is probably often thought but shouldn't be expressed, "Wesley! Stop asking questions!" His favorite place to voice thoughts is in the car; we are in the car a lot, probably close to an hour a day. And that entire time, with no respite whatsoever, Wesley talks. I emerge from the van with ringing ears, my head spinning, finding myself wanting to hike to the nearest mountaintop, alone, to just sit there and bask in the silence. Here is a sample conversation that we had, just the other day, based on his imaginative flowerings stemming from the movie Bolt:
Wesley: Mommy, if doggies die, do they go to heaven?
Me: Yes, I am sure that they do.
Wes: What if they don't?
Me: They do.
W: But what if they don't?
Me: Wesley, I told you, they do. Don't worry about it.
W: So, if Cleo and Sammie die they will go to heaven?
Me: Yes.
W: If Sammie and Cleo die, can we get another cat, but paint it black and put a lightning bolt on its side?
Me: We'll see, but I don't like thinking about our cats dying.
W: But if they do, can we get a cat like the one in Bolt?
Me: We'll deal with that when it happens.
W: Can we get a dog that chases helicopters too, and name him Bolt?
Me: No. Mommy and Daddy don't like dogs.
W: What if our car was being chased by bad guys in a helicopter?
Me: That would be scary.
W: You would have to drive really, really fast, huh Mom!
Me: Yes.
W: What if we are getting chased by aliens in a helicopter?
Me: That would be scary.
W: And then they catch us and the green-eyed man comes! Then, we would have to get our cat to come save us! Mommy, what if Sammie and Cleo die, and we get another cat. Can we name the cat Bolt?
Me: I don't know.
W: What if there was a cow on the train tracks?
Me: That would be scary.
W: What if there is a cow and a train is coming!?
Me: I'm sure that the cow would move.
W: But what if it doesn't move, and the train is coming fast, fast, fast!?
Me: Well, the train will hopefully see it and put on its brakes.
W: But what if the brakes are broken?
Me: Then that is one unlucky cow.
W: Would the cow die?
Me: Probably.
W: Do cows go to heaven?
Me: I'm sure they do.
W: I don't want the cow to die.
Me: It wouldn't. It would hear the train and get off the tracks.
W: But what if it started running away, and ran and ran and ran but couldn't run fast enough?
Me: Well, that would be silly. Wouldn't it be easier for the cow to simply step off the tracks instead of running away?
W: But what if the cow doesn't know to get off the tracks?
Me: I'm sure it will. The cow will be fine.
W: What if there was a cat on the train tracks!?
Me: Same thing. It would move.
W: What if there was a horse on the tracks?
Me: Same thing. It would move.
W: What if there were sheep on the tracks? Is that silly, Mommy?
Me: Yes.
W: What if there-
Me: Wes, if there are ever any animals on the train tracks, they will all move. All of them. Okay? Can Mommy have a bit of quiet time now?
W:------But Mommy, what if-
Me: Wes! No more questions!
And so on, and so forth. Outside doing yard work the other day, Wesley harassed me with so many questions, hypothetical "what if's", and statements that required immediate and constant validation that I finally asked him to stop talking to me. Wesley paused, only briefly, then said, "Fine, I will talk to myself," and started a conversation with, "Wesley, would it be silly if there were bugs that talked?" to which he answered, "Bugs don't talk, silly!" and then proceeded to converse with himself for the next five minutes. Whenever we ask Evan a question, Wesley bursts forth with the answer. When we ask him to be quiet so that Evan can answer, it is like physical torture; he twitches, writhes, claps his hands over his mouth, does a dance, jumps, and finally, after a few seconds, usually boils over and shrieks the answer, jolting upwards like an overflowing volcano that's hit is combustible point. The first thing he does in the morning is start talking; we hear it on the monitor. The last thing he does at night is sing himself to sleep (a couple classic Wesley compositions: "I Am a Chicken of God," and "Christmas Lights are So Much Fun").
I jot this down for two purposes: 1. Venting, and 2. Historical proof that he, at one point, never stopped talking. That way, when he is a brooding teenager whose reply to every personal question is "Nothing," or "Fine," as he skulks to his room, shutting the door in my face, I can wave this evidence as triumphant proof that he once communicated with his mother.
