My little boy has five words. Five. With a repetition of one to mean something else. That is six signals total. And with them, he runs an entire household.

I am so jealous of him.

I have to listen, think, plan, phrase, rephrase, choose the right combination of words, worry about how they land, anticipate the wrong assumption, and prepare for the consequence of a sentence that was meant one way but received another. He just opens his mouth and the world bends.

3a6a. Give me. Two syllables. Both sounds born in the pharynx. When he wants my phone, he says them softly. When he wants his brother’s Xbox controller, he squeezes both deeper into his throat as if the harder he pushes the faster it arrives. Same word. Different force. He figured out emphasis before he figured out sentences.

If I want something, I have to think about it first. What is the best way to say it. What combination of words will get me the result without offending someone, confusing someone, or being misunderstood. He doesn’t have that problem. He has 3a6a. It covers everything. Almost everything.

The almost is in reference to his tummy. When it is food, 3a6a steps aside. Numnum takes over. Simple. Clear. No ambiguity.

As an adult, requesting food is a whole ritual. If someone is eating and I want some, I cannot just say give me. It might be understood as my eyes are in your food. Or as you did not make enough. Or as you did not give me enough. Or as I am still hungry and you should feel bad. I can go on and on with the possible meanings of requesting food from someone. He just says numnum and gets whatever he points at.

And when he wants to sleep, he recycles half the word. Num. Just num. Eyes half closed. Head tilting. Num. And everyone understands.

I am not going to talk about how I say I want to sleep. Because for everyone in this house, no one cares when I want to sleep. He is adorable when he sleeps. I am deplorable when I want to sleep. And disposable once I do. Same house. Same bed. Different rules.

La2. When it is no, it is no. He says it with the hamza landing like a full stop. Not just an opinion. A verdict. And it is not just any la2. It is our family’s la2. Every family has their own version. Some families say it soft. Some stretch it. Ours hits. Short, sharp, and final. Like an aunty who walks into a room full of playing children and ends the fun without explanation. Like a grandma whose la2 carries the authority of three generations.

When he says la2, you know exactly which family he comes from.

I have been searching for the power of no my entire life. I wrote about it. I promised myself I would use it. I am still learning. He was born with it. I am jealous of it.

6a7. This is not a word. It is an event. 6a7 is the sound of chaos. The moment he deliberately drops something, or signals his intention to drop something, or signals his intention to drop himself. It is always followed by laughter. His. Not mine. He says 6a7 the way a director says action. And then everything falls. Including, on one occasion, my iPad. And on another, my laptop. In those moments I feel a rage building that has no healthy outlet because the person responsible is two feet tall and smiling.

And then he says baba.

And it all goes away. All of it. The rage. The broken screen. The cost of replacement. Gone. He says it at the exact moment where it melts everything in me. Baba. And I reply with a smile I cannot hide no matter how hard I try. Na3am, which is also a word that he learned and forgot because politeness is not in him yet.

He knows how to play with its intonation. When he is being sweet, it is soft. Baaaba. When he is in 6a7 mode and about to destroy something, it is short and sharp. Baba. As if he is warning me and daring me at the same time.

When I come home, he runs through the hall repeating it like a little Pac-Man. Baba baba baba baba numnum numnum numnum. I am tired from the drive. Tired from the heat. Tired from a lousy work day. And he melts all of it in four seconds. Puts me into place. Reminds me what I came home for.

Five words. Six signals. One toddler. Running everything.

And it is baba that I am most jealous of.

Because I lost mine.

My yiba stopped working five years ago. I still say it. It still flies out of my mouth the way baba flies out of his. But his lands and lights up a room. Mine echoes into the abyss. It hits a wall. No reaction. No emotion. No meaning. Alzheimer’s does not take the word away from you. It takes the person the word was meant for. The word stays. The listener leaves.

My boy says baba and my whole world lights up. I say yiba and the light does not come on anymore.

Five words can run a household. But one word, the right word, said to the right person, can break your heart every single time you say it.