“Daddy, there are three Lake Placids.”
“Yes.” He puts up three of his short fingers, one by one. “One, two, and three,” he says.
We drive alone in the rain, towards school.
I ask, “Can you be more specific?”
His fingers are still in the air. “No.”
Jude uses the art of selective, or, de-selective hearing.
“What, daddy? Merbledy gobbin schlob?”
“No, Jude,” I say, repeating, “take your boots off.”
There are things Jude says, misnomers, that I don’t bother to correct.
Those Nature’s Valley type “health” bars – he has always called them “ballola bars.” With the sticky fat and lipids used to hold the little particle-board-type food together, “ballola bar” feels linguistically more accurate than “granola bar.”
He calls a television screen a “tee vee scream.”
He often confuses people’s names, calling one person by another’s. This is perfectly understandable, for to Jude, we are all but one Body, one Mind, the purpose of us here on Earth to bring him treats and chocolate milk.