Look Who’s (Not) Talking

Like any mother worth her salt, I am wholly convinced that my child is exceptional. He’s obviously the cutest lad in all the land, and he’s probably a genius to boot (would a non-genius opt to chew on a book over some foolish toy?). And his athletic prowess! Surely the force and accuracy with which he throws food at the dog is an early predictor of his future career as a major league pitcher!

That said, I will admit that there are a few gaps in my son’s rich talent arsenal. For one, he totally sucks at using a fork. More troubling, his vocabulary is abhorrent. To date, I’ve heard him properly articulate just four words: baba (and we’re being generous in counting that, considering it’s really not a word), cookie (thanks, Sesame Street), yeah! (always delivered with with an exclamation point, no exceptions), and his favorite: dad.

Notice anything missing?

No mama. No mom. No mommy. Not even a ma! I’d happily accept a mumbled “meeergh” at this point, but I’m getting NOTHIN’. Meanwhile, I can’t go two minutes over here without hearing some more dad practice (“dad! DAD! Dad-dad-dad! Dada! DAAAAAADDDD!”).

What’s worse is that his fondness for dad (the word, not the man; I remain the favored parent and I intend to keep it that way) appears to be calculated, deliberate, and cruel. He knows exactly what he’s doing (I told you he was smart) and he’s drawing some sort of sick pleasure from tormenting me.

Exhibit A:

So until he broadens his lexicon, I’ve decided I’ll just be Dad.