Simon, tender almost-15-month old that he is, has a few vocabulary words under his belt.
His first word: Ball.
We think he started his lifetime of orating with the word ball because he’s obsessed with balls. It’s very cute, and frankly, seems a little stereotypical male.
His second word: No.
This two-letter gem comes in handy when you have a big sister who wants to steal your Legos right out of your hand or a mom who wants to kiss your cheeks 1,000 times a day. Simon’s got the key to a lifetime of boundary setting. (And he’s way ahead of me, who has yet to master the simple eloquence of “no.”)
Third word: Daddy.
Ah Simon, my sweet Daddy’s boy. He makes Opie’s love for Andy Griffith look like burning hatred. This kid adores his dad.
Fourth word: Costco.
Yep. Big box retailer, Costco, seems more compelling to Simon than a little three-letter word for the woman who gave him life and room and board in her body for 9 months. “Mom” has one syllable. It’s not that different from saying “ball.” But uttering the word “Mom” hasn’t occurred to Simon, despite my thrice daily speech sessions with him.
In case you are wondering, it’s not embarrassing at all that Simon can’t say my name, but has a fine linguistic grasp of the establishment where he sups on an endless stream of free samples and a $1.50 hot dog.
It’s cool. I swear. It in no way diminishes our bond that riding in a gigantic cart with Sadie and watching me comb through heaps of Hannah Anderssen pajamas prompts speech sooner than the experience of my breast building his not-insubstantial body. It’s cool that it betrays a certain lack of creativity on his parents’ part that our greatest idea for a family outing is to the place where we buy 45 rolls of toilet paper at once.