Mama Foofed!

My daughter, Bear, had quite a vocabulary by 17 months of age.  At 17 1/2 months, she was trying to put two words together, but they were often separated by a very large pause as she tried to connect the two ideas in her head.

One evening a few weeks ago, I took Bear upstairs to put her to bed.  I decided that it would be best to go to the bathroom before getting stuck under a baby for the next hour or so.  I happened to, well, um, pass some gas, which my family has given the endearing term “foofing.”  It wasn’t a remarkable foof (rhymes with hoof) or anything – just your average, every day, run of the mill foof.

Bear giggled.  “Foof!” she exclaimed.  And she laughed some more.  “Mama!”

“Yes, honey, Mama foofed.  Excuse me.”

“Foof… … … Mama… … … Mama… … … Foof… … … Foof… … … Mama… … … Foof.”

“Yes, Bear, Mama foofed.”

“Mama… Foof.  Foof.  Foof.  Mama… Foof.”

“I know, love.  Mama foofed.”

“Mama foof!”

Her first true sentence.

“Mama foof!  Mama foof!  Mama foof!”

“Yeah, I know.  Mama foofed.  That’s enough now.  Time for bed.”

2013-03-17 Mama foofI brought her into the bedroom and began nursing her down for the night.  She got drowsy and I thought that she was nearing sleep.  All of a sudden, she popped off, sat up, and yelled, “MAMA FOOF!”

She was so proud.


Note: Since that day, Bear has made sure to report everyone’s foofs – mine, her Papa’s, Monkey’s, and even her own.  No one can escape.  And it is now impossible to blame your foof on the baby.  Perhaps we should reconsider getting a dog



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