Who Carried You, Anyway?
Yeah. You heard me.
That was my son’s first word. The big one. The one that everyone asks about, and the one that’s inevitably followed by the “awwww” sound when you answer. Dada. I’m capitalizing it because he most certainly knows that it means something. These aren’t randomly spoken syllables, guys. These are deliberately uttered syllables, meaning anything that he is currently attached to. Daddy? Dada. Mommy? Dada. Stuffed classic Tigger? Dada. Ceiling fan? When I go into his room to get him at all ungodly hours? When I change his more-disgusting-than-most-babies-diapers? Yep, you got it. Always the same response. I understand that logically, “da” is easier than “ma,” I totally get it. But it’s crap. I’ve even tried reasoning with him:
“Remember that time we hung out in the same body for nine months, and I quit drinking and cut my caffeine supply by two thirds? And hey, there was that time we were in the hospital and I, like, gave birth to you? Yeah, good times. Good times.” And the response? Oh yeah, baby. A big fat “DADADADAAAAAA” that is so shrill and happy, dogs up the block are searching for Q-Tips at an alarming rate because their ears are now bleeding profusely.
Don’t get me wrong, my husband is a wonderful father. The love he has for his kids is almost visible, it’s that vibrant. Which is one of the reasons I love him so much. But despite that, he’s still a guy. He needs it explained that hats on babies are not merely accessories, and that the same is true for socks. He needs it explained that a short sleeved Onesie and a blanket are not acceptable attire in 35 degree weather. He needs it explained why the baby food strawberries are okay, and real strawberries are not yet a good idea. It’s a bit of a trade off, really. I’m just saying that a good 90 percent of the time, I’m the one keeping this kid alive, warm, and (hopefully) without allergic reaction.
Who’d have ever known that four letters could make me so pissy? And why am I so crazy jealous?