Here’s the thing: I can hardly understand a thing my son says.
Oh sure, we end up working it out – via a flurried combo of flailing arm gestures, Ella taking on translator-duties and Caleb taking on all-out tantrums – but sometimes just the fact that I haven’t a clue what he’s on about makes me feel like the only right I have to the ‘mother’ badge is to use it to pin my forehead with a ‘LOSER’ sign.
For instance:
Caleb: “Muuuma wooot doin waahflaches.”
Me: “What am I what?”
Caleb: “Wooot doin waahflaches.”
Me: “Uh….”
Cue me nodding enthusiastically.
Me: “Yeah! That’s right!”
Cue Caleb catching onto my evil deception – manifested in a choreographed sequence of stomping feet that would probably score him a part in Riverdance, should he ever feel inclined to apply.
Caleb: “NOOOO!!!!”
Me: “What?”
Caleb: (yelling) “WOOOOT DOO-IN WAAAAAAHHHh-FLAKES.”
Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Cue more screaming, etc etc etc until a moment of distraction is discovered and seized.
For instance:
Me: “Hmm, I’m not sure about that, but check out this awesome PLASTIC SPOON!”
Caleb: “Yay!”
A beat.
Caleb: “Muuuma wooot doin waahflaches pas-tika pooon?”
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