A Mama By Any Other Name

Every day, it becomes a little clearer that your unwillingness to communicate using language is due, not to a rare deformity below your tongue (I imagine a small toadstool), but to your obstinate nature.

Luckily, I am patient, understanding, and unwilling to wage silly battles around your linguistic development. Luckily, I am super chill about language. "Dude," I say to myself in my internal snowboarder voice, "the words will come when she's ready. Let her set the pace. Relax. [insert bong toke here]. For now, just think about ripping into that new powder."

It's too bad that snowboarder-voice often gets crushed by hypochondriac-wedding-planner-voice who says "Your child will grow to be a troubled loser who communicates only with stuffed cats. Also, she's dirty and why does your house look like crap?"

I love you, sweetest girl, but I have a sneaking suspicion that our relationship may not always be rose petals and swans and sweet new powder. And that's OK.

I thought having a baby meant that someone would call me Mama. It turns out I don't get to choose the way my child loves me.

(Or it turns out I finally have a reason to have another baby.)