Unfiltered Story #301042

My first word was “ball”. Anything vaguely round, like the top of a cup, was a ball. A wheel? To me it was a ball. I would happily point to it and tell my parents that it was a ball.

My second word was “stick”. A straight line was a stick. A pencil was a stick. A shadow of a broom handle was a stick. I would again excitedly tell my parents “stick”.

The gap between the carpet tiles in the middle of a crowded waiting room at the doctor’s surgery was a stick, and I happily shouted “stick” to my mum.

Now, Mum knew what I was saying. She also knew I had trouble saying the word. She knew that I couldn’t do a “st” sound, but I could manage “sh”. The “i” was no trouble, but “ck” was for infant me was an issue. For some reason, even though I couldn’t manage a “t” sound at the start of the word, I could manage it at the end, as my substitute for the “ck”.

So when I pointed to the ground and loudly exclaimed “STICK!” in my, um, unique way, Mum was too embarrassed to explain all this to everyone in the crowded waiting room.

I think she was hoping the stick would open up and swallow her…

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Suggested title: Not a stickler for correct pronunciation