DOESN’T time fly when you’re having fun – or failing that, bringing up two babies?
It’s hard to believe it’s been a whole year, and more, since the arrival of our two little treasures (if that’s the right word) and they’ve come a long way.
As much as My Good Wife would love it to be so, babies don’t stay babies forever, and they’re already well on the way to becoming toddlers.
For me, that’s a good thing. I’m not good with babies – for a start they don’t really do anything productive and what they do produce tends to be, well, messy.
But now they’re walking (one of them at least) and talking too, even if nothing really makes sense right now.
Watching them get to grips with language has reminded me of The Munchkin’s first word.
It’s a moment every parent dreams of, when the child they’ve nurtured, cared for, treasured and protected, at the expense of virtually everything up to and including sleep, turns round, smiles and says “daddy”.
Except The Munchkin didn’t.
You see her first word was Reggie, not a vain attempt to pronounce my first name, but a reference to our errant feline.
Of course, since then she’s hardly stopped talking, so much so I’ve been worried about the twins getting a word in edgeways.
But, at least this time, with two of them learning to talk, there was at least a tiny chance of one of them saying the right thing.
Twin number one blew it when a subtle “ta” fell out of his mouth halfway through dinner.
Now he rubs it in by shouting “hiya” whenever he sees Ma or Pa.
So it was all down to twin number two, and for one glorious moment I thought she was going to say that magic word.
Unfortunately, what I thought were her attempts to say Daddy, turned out to be an attempt to say dog – a word which has now been applied to every single object she sees, canine or not.
Light fittings, they are a dog. The Munchkin’s toy robot (thanks Santa), a dog.
Get the pattern?
Where it’s come from, I don’t know. We don’t even own a dog.
So, there we go, three first words, two of them relating to animals (one fictional, one dysfunctional) and one very polite little boy.
But no magic for mummy or daddy.
Of course, My Good Wife has suggested we carry on with the babies until one of them gets it right.
That’s not a course of action I’m keen on, so maybe I’ll just have to accept the little ones are already sailing their own course – however barking mad it might be.