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.”
Her first true sentence.
“Mama foof! Mama foof! Mama foof!”
“Yeah, I know. Mama foofed. That’s enough now. Time for bed.”
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…