Perhaps these sound like words uttered by a complete lunatic. Somebody who is playing with only half a deck- a stay at home mother who has been speaking nonstop baby talk for the past seven and a half years and has lost her ever-loving mind. Or- at the very least- had every vital piece of adult information ever learned replaced surely and methodically with the entire screenplay of Moana, the names of all of Caillou's goofy friends, where to find a library story time at any given moment, and desperate parenting hacks that often fail.
Desperate Parenting Hack #384
If your child won't take her liquid antibiotic, perhaps the prescribed 6 milliliters of it will dissolve into the chocolate Twinkie she's been begging for.
How Desperate Parenting Hack #384 Actually Plays Out
"NO! NO! There's MEDICINE on my CAKE! NOOOO!"
"Amelia Jane!" I yelled, waving the socky wocky ding dongs in the air. "LET'S GO!"
And of course her name is not Amelia Jane, either. Neither of those names is correct. I had a neighbor once hear me call her that, and she asked, "Oh, is that Emily's full name?" To which I had to reply, "No. She's Emily Julianne. I don't know why I call her Amelia Jane. It's completely incorrect."
But I do call her Amelia Jane. Maybe that's what I should have named her. None of it makes any sense.
I know the baby talk and all of the nonsense that comes out of my mouth irritates Chris, but he also spends the majority of his day with adults even if most of those adults make him want to stab out his eyeballs in much the same fashion of how my children often make me feel. He doesn't get overcome with the urge to baby talk like I do. However, he's come around to footsy wootsy bang bang. "You played the long con with that one," he said the other day. I've been saying footsy wootsy bang bang for years, and now it's finally paying off, because nothing is as satisfyingly funny as when Emily hits her foot against something and innocently, casually mumbles, "Oh, my footsy bang bang."
She leaves out the wootsy part. Perhaps that little bit is just one step too asinine for her.
Often, I put her socky wocky ding dongs on her footsy wootsy bang bangs and drive her off to preschool, which is something that many parents don't do with two year olds. Two year old preschool is completely unnecessary. Three year old preschool is probably completely unnecessary, too. I mean, unless you add up all the social benefits of a little one meeting new friends and being around different adults and all the mental benefits for a mom to just go somewhere and scream into a pillow uninterrupted for two hours- except for all of THOSE benefits, it's completely superfluous. Something we do for our tykes to mix it up a bit. Because even though I KNOW where all of the library story times are- much like an addict can find a meeting whenever they need one- whenever we hit more than one story time per week, I start to feel like maybe I'm unraveling a bit. Plus, at this point, on child three, I've heard all the stories. I've read all the books. I've done all the crafts. Sure it's new for Emily, but not everything is just for Emily.
Two year old preschool. That's just for Emily. Or so she would be led to believe.
|We have our own language.|
Inwardly, I groaned. Here we go again, I thought, thinking back to every conversation I'd ever had with Andy and Alex's preschool teachers. I mean, admittedly, both boys do have documented speech issues. You got me there. But, come on. Emily too? She's a powerhouse of conversation. She's only twenty-nine months old. She's basically perfect. And, let's not forget, this two year old preschool thing? It's a BONUS for her little life. This conversation we're having about her speech right here in front of all of the other moms? An EXTRA in our lives. I will take the remarks about her speech under consideration. But for now, she's fine, and where should I put my monthly tuition check?
"Hmm," I replied intelligently to the teacher. "No, she's not in speech...." It was at this time that Emily looked down at her new shoes. The teacher smiled at her and said, "Emily is proud of her new shoes!"
Ah, yes, her new shoes. The ones that we put on over her socky wocky ding dongs atop her-
"Footsy bang bangs!" Emily murmured, sticking her foot out, to which the teacher smugly shrugged as if to say, "See? What the hell did she just say?"
It may not be a speech problem as much as a consequence of spending too much time with her nutty mother. Her wacky Jackie. Her mommy mommy bo bommy, banana fana.....
But, they are only itty bitty once, for such a short time, and the pure joy I get from hearing Emily talk about her footsy bang bangs and her resistance to going down for nappy wappies- it's mine, and I will wrap myself in it for as long as I am able. Like a socky wocky ding dong around the toesy woesies, I will be warmed by the beautiful craziness of our own easily decipherable secret language for as long as possible.
Now, would anyone care for a wicky woon?