Saturday, May 30, 2009
I am not Italian
But my daughter has taken to calling me in dramatic, arms in the air, her body collapsing against my legs, fashion: Mama Mia!

She has also seemingly begun to take stock of this whole baby brother thing. For the first month, she had been my rock, acting nearly unfazed by the addition of a baby to our household. If anything, she was helpful and enamored, wanting to kiss the babies knees, elbows, toes, eyes.

More recently now though, she goes between wanting to help and wanting to be helped. Perfectly normal, acceptable, fine.

What I'm having trouble with is that she has also developed a Cartman-esque (a la South Park) sounding baby talk. My daughter, who was speaking in full, clear, sentences at a year old, is now regressing to nasal gibberish.

Thankfully, she snaps out of it quickly. It only takes a disapproving look, or us questioning "what's that, Lila? I don't understand when you do baby-talk," and she'll stop.

And sure, there are times when I send mixed signals and find myself laughing at her, thus encouraging the behavior. But what's a mom to do when she's in the doctor's office with her three little ones, stripped from the waist down and wrapped in a sheet, when her little girl gets out of her chair and makes a point to walk all the way around the exam table to peek at her behind and say, in baby gibberish, "That your bum, mama?"


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