When you have a child, you wait breathlessly for that first word, that first verbal acknowledgment that yes, your sweet baby does indeed have the means to communicate with you, in a way other than sobbing.
Say mama, Poopy! Say Dada! (Yes. I called my son Poopy for the first 2 years of his life. I only quit when I realized that this was one of the major ways I would ruin his ego. Just the first of many, I’m sure.)
His first real word was ‘Hi’. He was 6 months old and the. smartest. fucking. child EVER BORN!!!
Well. My dear sweet little boy became a talker. With a slightly British accent. (I have no idea where that has come from.)
Now, at 7, having been talking, singing and generally making lots of sounds for only 6.5 short years, this child will. not. shut. UP!
I am honest when I say that his dad and I have asked him to please, PLEASE, just talk in his head for 10 minutes. Please. please. please.*whimper*
I hate doing it. But when my ears are ringing and I am so confused by trying to keep up and respond that I can’t think and he bursts into song for the umpteenth time, I just want some silence. Or some duct tape.
I can’t ‘fake’ not hearing him. Oh no. If I do that, I get ‘Mom. Mom? Mom? Mom. Mum. Mum. Mum. MOM! MOM! MUM! MUM!‘ Ad nauseum. Until I bellow something motherly like “Ch my god, WHAT?”. To which he will reply, “May I ask if you heard me?”.
I told you. He’s like a little Brit. Many things are prefaced with ‘May I ask?’.
“Mum, may I ask why there are candy wrappers on the table in the morning? May I ask where you keep this chocolate of yours?”
He wants to be a cop when he grows up. I think he has a grand start on interrogation tactics.
By bedtime, his father and I are exhausted. We barely talk to each other. Just the odd grunt ,nod or point. We’re like Cave Men!!! (Well hubby kinda always was…).
Now my poor sweet boy has lost some teeth. ( Have you noticed how little kids go from being cute to being snaggle toothed freaks for a couple of years? Yeah, we’re in that time. I’m already window shopping at orthodonists offices.)
Poor guy. Missing all these important teeth has now given him a lisp. And a horrible case of the spit showers.
Sad part is that as much as I need some quiet, in a few short years, I’ll be begging him to talk to me. And I’ll miss my little blabbermouth.