Little Etienne Combeferre, three years old, sat on a stool by the kitchen stove, swinging his feet as he watched his mother. "What you doing, Maman?"
"I'm baking a loaf of gingerbread," she answered, busily stirring together ingredients. "You can have some after dinner."
He tilted his head, wide-eyed. "Will I like it?"
"Of course you will." She added flour to the batter. "It's very yummy."
"Will Papa like it?"
Mme Combeferre stiffened a bit. "Oh, probably." Crossing the kitchen to get a pan, she changed the subject away from her husband. "Etienne, do you remember how many days until Christmas?"
His brow wrinkled. "Do I count to know?"
"Yes, Etienne, you count to know."
He brought up his tiny, round hand and began to put up his fingers with a look of intense concentration. "One…two. Fwee!"
"Three," she corrected, putting her gingerbread into the oven.
"Three days till Christ-mas," he said, getting the R's out with difficulty. He let out a laugh and clapped his hands. "I said it! I said it right!"
"So you did," Mme Combeferre answered briskly. "Here." She handed him a spoon with some gingerbread batter. "You may lick this spoon, Etienne."
He stuck it in his mouth, quickly deciding that he did, indeed, like gingerbread. At dinner, he showed his father that he could say its name correctly, but this key bit of progress was summarily dismissed by M. Combeferre.
Etienne was not daunted and ran around the house afterwards, making R sounds to himself.