"We could go for a B.R.," I said.

"Bike?" said Allison, dropping her sippy cup and leaning forward in her booster seat.

Just like that, she’d cracked our code.

Spelling out "d-e-s-s-e-r-t" and "s-w-i-m" and using abbreviations for phrases such as "bike ride" have been part of life at our house since Allie’s language explosion began a few months ago.

When she was a goo-goo-ing baby, I wanted a translator. Now, it’s an interpreter I need. Her sounds are starting to resemble the English language, but, like all toddlers, she has her own unique dialect.

It’s not as if I’ve never done this before. I’ve always been fascinated by language. In college, I majored in English and Spanish and spent a semester in Madrid. And about six years ago, my older daughter gave me a crash course in toddler talk.

But none of that prepared me for the fun —and the frustration — of communicating with this particular 20-month-old.

The second time around, I’m finding it harder to figure out what the little commander wants. But I am also appreciating the whole learning process more, perhaps because I remember how much fun it was with my first daughter: the cute new words that pop up almost daily; the "Eureka!" moments when I successfully decipher a request.

Sometimes, I am amazed at the efficiency with which toddlers get their point across. Allison has only to look at an object, a watering can, for instance, and say "Aa-ee?" and I know she means, "Allie wants to water the plants."

In the morning and at regular intervals throughout the day, she chirps "eat-eat-eat," like an alarm with no snooze button, just an intermittent whining sound.

I find the way language develops fascinating: what Allie can and can’t say; which words are hard to learn and which come easily. For example, though she recently learned to say "Abby," she also calls her sister "Eees," for "Sissy," because apparently it’s hard for her to start a word with the "s" sound.

After months of wondering what’s going on inside her head, it’s exciting to finally get glimpses of what she is thinking. Though most of the words she says are names of objects she sees, some demonstrate more-complex connections. For example, she says "guck" when she hears the high-pitched beeping of a truck backing up and "hot" when she hears the word "fireworks" or sees a gas grill.

I’m constantly impressed by how fast she learns. She has quickly advanced beyond the "Me-Tarzan-You-Jane" stage, adding exclamations ("Wow-ee!"), possessives (starting with the all-important "mine") and short sentences such as "That’s Abby’s," "There it is" and "Hi, Daddy."

No matter how smart, efficient and persistent Allie is, understanding her language can be difficult. Some words, such as "apple" and "baby," come out crystal-clear. Others are more of a challenge. There’s "dice" (nice) and "dyze" (toys); "’cull" (Popsicle) and "i-heem" (ice cream)

Then there are the words that sound almost the same, so you have to listen carefully for the nuances or, better yet, be aware of the context. For example, in Alliespeak, "strawberries" and "bubbles" both sound like "bah-eez."

To make matters even more confusing, she calls tomatoes "apples" and uses opposite words interchangeably ("out" can mean either "in" or "out"; "off" can mean either "on" or "off").

As frustrating as this can be for both of us, I know from experience that it will not last long. A year from now, she’ll be telling elaborate stories, and I’ll probably even understand most of the words. Before I know it, she’ll be reading and writing and going to school, where her language skills will continue to grow. She’ll take spelling tests, write reports, give speeches — and tell us all about it over dinner.

And then, just when we’ve got the whole communication thing down pat, she’ll turn into a teenager, and we’ll start all over.

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Lisa Miller is a freelance writer who lives in Oneonta. She can be reached at lisamiller44@hotmail.com.