If you look here, you'll see that several weeks ago I made the mistake of confusing your constant "mamamamama" chatter as saying "Mama." After hearing you call your shoes, toys, books, diapers, and random air particles "mama," I put two and two together and figured out that I mispoke. Rather than associating my face with the word "Mama," you were just babbling nonsense and "Mama" had no more meaning to you than your other favorite bable word "aaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHaaaaaaa" (your favorite expression of joy).
So forgive me for thinking nothing of it when you looked up and lunged at poor Maynerd while saying "DAAH-g!" last Thursday. I also didn't think too much of it when you did the same thing a few hours later.
When it happened again the other night after coming home from being out of town, I figured it was time to put my own reluctance aside and get out the congratulatory sippy cups.
Had it been written in a novel, the scene on Tuesday night might have played out something like this:
A tired and haggard woman desperately in need of a shower stumbles into the darkened laundry room from the garage, tightly clutching her equally exhausted ten month old daughter. Moving quickly so as not to trip over the two mangy mutts at her feet, the woman flips the light switch to find the young girl bouncing excitedly on her hip. "D-AAAH-g!" the girl shrieks happily, lunging anxiously while her mother struggles desperately to hang on, both to her daughter and to the baby she once was.
Or something like that. You get the idea. I was tired, it was dark, you saw the dogs and repeated the same phrase you first said on last Thursday (March 25th, if you keep track of that kind of thing). At any rate, you've since then repeated "dog" several times and both your father and I are content to write it down in history as your first (real) word.
I'm sensing a running theme here. The first thing you crawled for was the dog dish. The first thing you say is "dog" (or your own version of it--where the "g" is mostly silent). Methinks that when it's time to coax you into walking we should just grab the pooches and hold them a few feet away, like the proverbial dangling canine/carrot. Or, better yet, when the terrible two's hit, I won't have to say "Mommy says no." I can just say "Roxy [or Maynerd] says no," that way you'll be more likely to obey because clearly you view the dogs as higher up in the Vogt household food chain than your measly parents.
Loving you copious amounts, my little dog-lover,
your mommy
PS Here's a cursory look through the past 6 (dog) years of pictures. No wonder you're obsessed with all things "d-AAAAH-g."
A few days old: Roxy tries desperately to walk over me to give you the sniff-down.
A few weeks old. Roxy figures you're perfect for a good snuggle-buddy.
A few months old. Roxy continues the snuggling.
Month Four. Right about when you figured out that the dogs were fun to be around.
Month six. Rare shot of Maynerd generously sharing your blanket with you.
Month seven. You and Roxy are clearly two peas in a pod.
Month Nine. Roxy has what it takes to make you smile.
Month Ten. Waiting for the dogs to do something to amuse you.
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