I am having difficulty in expressing the way the Proles speak in simple text.
Phonetically trying to spell out the sounds that come from them in order to convey some of the weird noises that pass for language just does not seem to work.
Prole2 could never refer to the stairs, he would always say ‘day-hne’.
I can’t use this in a format like this one as I would have to issue a translation with each piece of dialogue.

For ‘upstairs’ he would say ‘ut-day-hne’
For ‘downstairs’ it was ‘dowe-day-hne’
‘There’ was ‘dare’, ‘kitchen’ was ‘kit-zeh’, ‘living room’ eventually became ‘lilly-vroom’.
‘Work’ was ‘wurt’.
Our cats are called Lola and Pavement (don’t ask) and were known as ‘Low-a’ and ‘Pay-boat’
Thus ‘Pay-boat gon dowe-day-hne’ becomes ‘Pavement has gone downstairs’.

I come from Cornwall where there is a rich tradition of ‘droll’ stories and phonetic transcription of dialect but even I know that transcribing your kids’ speech is really annoying.
I won’t be doing it in the future but there is one word that pretty much goes through me every time, I am not sorry to hear it evolve out of common use but at the same time I miss it from the core of my bones.

Some things act as a bridge and carry you over and back and leave you where you were before, just for an instant.
Music can do it, smells can do it and for me words can do it too.
I wrap myself up tightly to ward them off most days but sometimes you have to let them take you, to fight them off all the time would be impossible. Better to allow them in than to let them beat you down.

When either Loz or I would go out Prole2 would ask where we were.
The questions were endless until the phrase ‘At work’ was used when he would nod seriously and say ‘Wurt!’ and continue playing in the knowledge that ‘wurt’ had a finality to it that he could not argue with.

Before he was 2 years old, Prole2’s favourite way of navigating round the house was to sit on your hip and lean out with his palm outstretched, not exactly pointing but more shifting his balance and therefore your balance so you naturally seemed to be pointing in the direction of favoured travel.
He would gently guide you: “There…kitchen…there…stairs…cat ha ha ha…there…stairs…there…bedroom, play now”
I could understand as I was his dad but the sounds were often a mystery to others.

He would go to sleep in a tantrum, as it got later he would get more and more cross with everything. He would flit between being a sunny little man to heaving screams in seconds and then back again.
Putting him down was tough.
The bedtime routine was unchanged but in the end I would wait until he was really, really tired before I would attempt it.
It was not better this way, it was just shorter.
A bath, a soft towel and a giggly chase, look in every mirror in the bathroom and a tickle fight to put on his nappy. Into a babygrow and then onto the armchair for a story with a bottle of milk.
Moo, Baa, La La La.
Into my bed where I would lie him down with him, a cuddly toy and his bottle and cuddle him to get him off to sleep.
The crying would start at different times but always in the end he would be shrieking and trying to get out of bed, trying to hit me. This would carry on with him wriggling and squirming to get out of bed.
I would lie with my arm across him holding him down, pressing his shoulders to the mattress.
He would slowly, slowly calm down enough and be asleep before the tears had dried on his cheeks.
The mornings would be just as bad.
At what ever time he woke, 5am, 6am, 4am or even on almost-a-lie-in-but-I-am-sleeping-so-shallowly-I-am-not-enjoying-it-but-please-don’t-wake-up 7am mornings he would spring straight into a screaming tantrum, hitting me gain, hating his bottle, struggling to get out of bed.

Some times I tried it without the fight, to let him do what he wanted, let him walk around the house, looking in every room until he was to tired to walk and I carried him as he guided me round:
Prole2: There…there…kitchen…back kitchen…there…living room…there…kitchen…there…back kitchen…there…stairs…there…bathroom…there…stairs…there…bedroom….there…bedroom…there…stairs…there…bathroom…there…kitchen…

This could go on for some time as his head started to nod and he got so tired he would press his nose into my shoulder. if I was lucky he might fall asleep on me, otherwise it would be another sleepy fight to get him into bed.

His shouting tantrums just consisted of one word: Mum
I could not explain, I could not let him know, we did not have the language between us to convey what had happened. I just did not know what to say so every night I tried to get him to understand a whole new vocabulary.
Died. Dead. Heart attack. Funeral.
I had never used these words with him before and he had no idea what I was trying to say.

In the end, after a long walk around the house in the middle of the night, he worked it out for himself.

Prole2: Mum?

Me: Mum died. She went away. She cannot come back. We can’t see her any more. She died.

Prole2: Died.

Me: Yes, she died.

Prole2: Work?

Me: Yes. Like work.

Prole2 just sagged against me.
We were sitting.
Top step, outside the bedroom.
Just there, cuddled in.

A little boy, 20 months old, just worked out he would not ever see her again.

Wurt.

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