Graham is all about rhyming words right now. Real and nonsense, he rhymes all the time. Today, he was telling a chemistry professor from a local university that tire rhymes with mire. And bird rhymes with turd, curd, and pearl. “Mama, bird and pearl rhyme, how?” “Internal rhyme.” “Yep. I knowed dat.” Graham loves internal rhyme, because it can ‘twick people’ and he thinks he’s so clever.
Last week, Graham said, “Mama, your and you’re don’t weally rhyme.” “Well, they do rhyme. They actually sound exactly the same and are called homophones. Homo means same and phones means sound. Same sound.” “But, Mama, dey don’t sound da same when you say dem.” Then, he impersonated me saying your and you’re. And they were different.
Apparently, when I say your, I say what sounds like yore. For the most part. There is a slight difference. But it most closely sounds like yore. But when I say you’re, it sounds like you-er. I didn’t even notice. I have no idea how long I have been saying them this way.
It was quite the revelation of my speech. I spell almost everything in my head as I am saying it, just a weird quirk, but I wonder if that’s the reason for such a profound ‘you’ in my pronunciation of you’re.
You learn something new everyday. Today, I learned that I can sing songs to Adelaide for two straight hours at a tire shop with no embarrassment, while Bess vomits all over me and into our ring sling. But there’s no prize for mothering like a boss…