Tooka-tooka-tooka! You’ll have to ask Baby Bop about that

I’m excited for Baby Bop to start talking. I’m imagining conversations that will never happen:

“Mama, I’m all done eating, please take my plate away before I dump everything on the floor.”

Because if I’m not paying attention, Baby Bop does a massive sweeping swipe with both arms and clears her tray in seconds. Food doesn’t just fall on the floor, it goes flying across the kitchen in every direction.

This is when having a dog is useful. The problem is Booker is getting old. I have to walk around to every piece of food on the floor and point it out to him. It’s not enough to make me want to clean it up myself, but close.

Baby Bop has three words: “Mama, Dada and quack quack.” Mama and Dada seem very useful. Quack quack? Makes me wonder if all I’m doing every day is making animal noises.

It’s not a random sound. I say,

“Baby Bop, what does a duck say?” And she says,

“Whack, whack.” Which is close enough and maybe even closer than quack. I’ve never heard a duck say exactly “Quack.”

I’m a big fan of making the animal sound as life-like as possible. For a pig I do an actual snort. After 6 months of snorting, I realized Baby Bop isn’t going to learn that. Or when I do my realistic rooster impression. She can’t hope to master that for years. So for all these months of animal noises, I should’ve been doing what I’ve done for the duck, and just saying “quack,” or “oink” or “cock-a-doodle-do.”

Now when I’m in the shower I start singing “Old McDonald Had a Farm.” It makes me want to shoot myself. Nothing against Old McDonald. I’m sure his farm is very nice, even if it’s a bit noisy.

It’s bad enough to sing these songs with Baby Bop. I do NOT need to sing them by myself. Then I go to sleep and dream about pigs. Cute little muddy pigs trying to eat me. It was a borderline nightmare. Old McDonald, you need to keep your animals under control.

When Baby Bop is really happy, she likes to say “tooka-tooka-tooka.” It seems to have no meaning except now Captain and I say it all the time. And without Baby Bop. Captain tells me,

“I fixed that problem at work today.”

“Awesome!”

“Then I said ‘tooka-tooka-tooka.'”

Tooka-tooka-tooka.

So Baby Bop can quack. I wish she could moo. I like cows. And if you’ve ever wondered what your face looks like when you’re making an animal noise, here’s mine “mooing.”

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I want to eat my baby

Baby Bop is 2 months old and everyone is getting the hang of things. Captain is getting the hang of being back at work. I’m getting the hang of having Captain back at work and Baby Bop is getting the hang of being a baby.

She is good at eating, crying, pooping and smiling. She’s also very good at sleeping for short stints of time. Nothing exciting happens at 3am, but she keeps waking up to check.

Someday soon she’ll realize she has hands, which will be nice for her because they keep whacking her in the face.

I’ve had a few evenings with time to myself in the bathroom, nice quality reading time. One parenting book has a section on baby talk and how to do it if you’re not a natural. It states,

“If you can carry on a conversation with a dog, you should have no problem with baby talk.”

Check.

I’m loving how adorable she is. I understand I am the most biased person in the world. The other day I’m deep in the baby talk. I tell her,

“I could just eat you up.” I proceed to munch on her cheeks. “I could just eat you right up.” More munching. “Look at these legs! I’m going to eat them.”

Captain comes in the room and tells Baby Bop,

“I’m here to rescue you before Mommy swallows you whole.”

I would NEVER! I just want lots of little nibbles.

My blog has come down to this. Eating babies.

As Baby Bop fusses less, I’m able to try on more adorable outfits. Lots of pink and ruffles, bonnets and bows.

I understand that the diaper bag needs to have extra outfits for her, but I’m reluctant to put anything really cute in there, because I want all the cutest stuff out for her to wear.

So then comes a diaper explosion the other day. Poop through multiple layers of her clothes. Out comes the diaper bag outfit: white onesie and gray pants with ruffles. We continue on our way. Someone stops me,

“Oh cute little baby, is it a boy?”

An hour later someone else stops to look,

“Aw, is it a boy?”

We make it home to our building. A neighbor remarks,

“Is it a boy?”

What’s more gender neutral than white and gray? Also do ruffles mean nothing anymore? It’s time for her giraffe costume. Boy? Girl? NOPE. Giraffe.

Baby giraffe photo coming soon.

 

Everybody loves a good bonnet:

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