"Where's Dada?" I chirped as the Anonymous Husband walked into the room. Beaming, Master P swiftly turned from me, pointed a finger at the AH, and, for the first time, proudly proclaimed "Dada!" in the direction of the "Dada" in question.
"Yay!" we squealed, excited to see him connect the person with the word. I smugly congratulated myself on the genius of our firstborn as I next asked,"Where's your dog?"
Because pride goeth before a fall - or is it my waistline, I can never remember - I smugly proceeded with, "Where's Mama?", confident my child prodigy would nail three in a row. I was greeted with that same self-satisfied grin . . . and, scene. No pointing, no "Mama" - just a long enough pause for my wee darling CEO to lose interest and the AH to silently gloat during my "You know who Mama is, right? RIGHT?" bleating.
You may think I'm preoccupied with nursing my broken mama heart or something weird like just being pleased my kid is talking full stop, but you forget one important thing - I may have feelings, but above all else I'm vindictive. Conveniently, I've recently been named the family historian, so guess what's actually going in that infernal baby book as Master P's first word? She who bears witness to history gets to revise accordingly, or something like that.
You heard it here - or didn't - first.