It started with numnum for food. Then booberry for blueberry. Then eeeeb for 7aleeb. Then sawberry. Then moz and 2apl.
All of them belong to one category, 2akil, which he also acquired.
He is not learning to speak. He is learning to order. And he is in a hurry about it, because he has watched his father do it and clearly decided it is the most important skill in the house.
The system works like this. He says the name of the food and waits. That is the polite version, and it is the one you get first.
If nothing arrives, he adds 2ata. Give it to me. Same word, different tone, and it is no longer a request.
And if he does not know the name of the thing, he skips the first step entirely and simply says 2ata, pointing at it, with the confidence of a man who assumes the kitchen will work out the rest.
Which we do. Every time.
The rest of the vocabulary is still foOoOog with a long O, which means carry me, taal, which means come, and sit, which means sit.
And nothing has changed since last week
Not because of him. Because of me.
Because I have been doing exactly what he has been doing. Adding things to a list. Places I want to eat before keto starts. Things I need to have one more time first.
Same category. Same instinct. He points at food and asks for it, and so do I. The only difference is that he says one word and I book a table.
Although the volume is starting to look strange. I have not been eating like a man about to start keto. I have been eating like a man who has seen the forecast and is going underground on Sunday.
Which sends me back to something I wrote a few posts ago.
I wrote about inheritance, and I said my eldest had clearly got the tinkering from me. The refusal to leave a broken thing alone. That part I still believe.
Then I suggested the little one had it too, and I think I was wrong.
He did not get tinkering.
He got the food.
The second flaw is exercise, and I cannot blame anyone for that one
I have avoided it my whole life.
On sports day at school I volunteered to be an organiser. Every year. Cones, rope, writing down the results.
The one exception was the end of the day. The hundred metres and the relay. I ran both, and I usually won, and more than once I carried a team that had no business winning anything.
Which tells you what I actually am. Not sporty. Fast.
Ten seconds of effort, applause, and then back to holding the rope. That is the arrangement I made with exercise at about the age of nine, and I have never renegotiated it.
The paperwork came later. Through most of high school I was excused from PE because of asthma. I did have asthma. It was not the reason I was not doing PE. It was the reason available to me for not doing PE, which is a different thing, and I knew the difference at the time.
Nothing has changed since. The excuse is just better dressed now.
Where the week landed
Keto did not start. The plan is still ahead of me.
Training did not start either. My trainer is eighteen months old and his entire programme is lift, come, sit down.
Reading and writing held.
So last week’s meters were filled with intent, and this week I converted none of it. I stood up glowing and then did not move.
Two flaws. Food and exercise. Both known. Both mine. Neither new.
But it has to end. إن شاء الله this week.





