May 21, 1922
Well, I didn’t! Awake from two to three thirty in the morning—and my parents didn’t approve of it at all! Didn’t cry much, but was wide awake and just couldn’t get to sleep. Think likely the trouble was that I was wearing my first pajamas and the excitement was too much for me. It was so good to be able to wave my feet about and not to be confined within the limits or a long nightdress, with the botoom closed by a drawstring, as has been my fate all winter. Also in the morning, after the side of my crib has been raised, it is ever so much easier to stand up to greet my parents!
I’m beginning to learn to translate my parents’ speech. When Father asks, “Want a cracker, Son?,” at supper time [crackers—oatmeal or graham—and apple sauce being my second course] I point up to the top of the ice box, where they are kept, and answer, “Gra-a!” And when Mother says, “Do you want your bottle, Son?,” I answer, “Bah!” —So far as I can see we don’t really need any new words, for we all understand each other perfectly well as it is: but, since my parents can’t talk my talk, I s’pose I’ll have to learn theirs. And I’ve really learned a lot already: “bottle” and “cracker,” as I’ve said; and “No,” and “Be a good boy,” and “Don’t touch,” and “Come and be kissed,” and “Clap your hands,” and “How big is the baby?,” and “All right, Son,”—and many other things.