One of my favorite things to do is to think back to when we were preggo, or even before we were preggo, and laugh about all of the things we said we'd never do or say as parents. A big pet peeve of Michael's is "baby-talk." I am also not a fan of going overboard with the syrup-y sweet "goooo"s and "gaaaaa"s. But I was never as committed as Michael was to the cause. He had visions of reading The New York Times or War and Peace to our baby. Which I find interesting, because we never read them ourselves.
When Oliver came along, it was not that difficult to speak in a normal voice with grown-up words to him. But when he started to look at us like we were the most intelligent and lovely beings that ever walked the planet, it was hard not to encourage him with some soft, high-pitched adoring banter. It was all downhill from there. He learned how to say "ah-gooooooo." Wanting to hear it more, we cooed it right back to him. He learned how to blow raspberries. We blew them right back.
And now, here we are, developing our own language, shortened or repetative versions of household words that are simple enough as they are. I refer to his bottles as "ba-bas." "I'm sorry," Michael said one day, thick with sarcasm. "Do you mean, 'bottle'?" Yes, I mean bottle. I also mean "I love you" when I say, "I loves you." "Blanket" has shamefully turned into "banket," and the most simple word of all, "nuk," has been complicated into "nukkers."
Michael cannot call me out on this too much, though, as Daddyhood is slowly chipping away at his reserve to speak correctly and like a grown-up, too. Only two nights ago, he announced, "I'm going upstairs to put on my jam-jams." That's right, people, Mr. New York Times said "jam-jams" instead of "pajamas." What a baby.
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