Yellow Fever

When I first met Jarrah, she had already developed a prurient interest in stacking cups and rings, so I wrongly assumed that learning the bold, primary colors that differentiate these items would be her next task. In fact, I have known Jarrah more than 10 months, during which time she has memorized the names and sounds of every barnyard animal, mastered the moves to most of the Wiggles songs and learned the difference between Bosc, Bartlett and D'anjou pears, all without the slightest awareness that purple and green are different, or even that purple and green are states of being.

Until last week sometime. She pointed at a banana and said "yellow," plain as day. I was so thrilled I went into a paroxysm of clapping. Shortly thereafter, my glee was slightly dampened when she pointed to her high chair and said "yellow." It is, in fact, blue. Hmmm. "That's blue," I told her, hopefully in an encouraging way. She was undeterred. "Yellow," she said, pointing to her green crib toy. "Yellow," she said, indicating my blue car. "Yellow," she said, holding a red apple. Clearly, she was having a breakthrough in the sense that she understands that things have a color, but now that she's found one she likes, why muddy the waters with too many options?

So, for the time being, everything is yellow. We wake up each day to a monochromatic world, with a yellow sky and yellow trees, and we romp in yellow parks full of yellow dogs and yellow flowers. We all wear yellow and eat yellow food. We love our yellow world.