The DragonMonkey is a creature of rituals.

He has a certain order at his bedtime routine, and every couple of weeks it seems something new is added.

It used to be that he needed to be nursed to go to sleep.

Once he self-weaned, that gravitated into needing a bottle to go to sleep.

Of course, let’s not forget that from the time he was three months old he was attached to his “Bahn-keee”, a small square of blue and white blanket my sister-in-law bought us from Target. He drags it around with him like a little Linus, chewing on the edges and sniffing it when he needs to self-soothe. For as many places as Bahnkee has gone, it’s held up surprisingly well.

Bahnkee and a bottle… that’s not too confusing, right?

Eventually we started the tradition of giving him kissies before bed.

“Give mama a kiss,” I’ll ask, and my son will open his mouth in a gaping, slobbery pantomime of a kiss, wetting my cheek with a loud, overemphasized “AWWWWWMMWWA!”

“Now give one to Dada,” The Bean will say. The DragonMonkey hones in on the Bean and I take advantage of the momentary distraction to wipe the spit off my cheek.

Slimy baby kisses. They’re not for the faint of heart.

After we’ve both been thoroughly spitted-up, the DragonMonkey juts his chin out expectantly and The Bean and I both lay a kiss on him at the same time. We lay him down in his crib, and hand him Bahnkee and his baba. We turn out the lights, close the door behind us, and voila. Bedtime has reached another successful conclusion.

That worked well for a few months, until one day I realized that the bedtime routine had developed an interesting new addition.

As I lay him down on the changing table to give him a fresh diaper for the night, The DragonMonkey’s hand will dart down, and he grabs his crotch in distress.

“Popo! Popo!” he says urgently.

“Do you have to use the bathroom?”


“ Do you have to go popo?”

“Yeah.” He squeezes his diaper harder, his need to poo apparently reaching critical levels.

I sigh, strip him of his pants and diaper, and watch as his bare little butt trots off in the direction of the bathroom….

Where suddenly he has absolutely no desire to sit on the toilet, or even go near it. Suddenly, it has become absolutely critical that he pet the “Dat” who is sitting impatiently on the counter, meowing for the water to be turned on.

After a few minutes of threatening I force him onto his potty seat, where he sits kicking his legs and straining to reach the toilet paper so he can wipe himself for the millionth time.

Naturally, nothing actually comes out.

We flush the pristine, unused toilet, wash our hands and return to the changing table, where I put a fresh diaper on and coat him liberally with powder.


“No, DragonMonkey, it’s taaaalco. It’s not polvo. Polvo is dust. This is Talco – Baby powder.”


“It’s Talco.”



POOOOOOOBOOOOOOOOO,” he corrects me. Sternly.

“Fine. Polvo. Whatever.”

He nods, appeased. “POBO. Mama. Pobo Mama.”

His hand darts suddenly down the front of his diaper, and emerges chalk white with fresh baby powder.

“Pobo. Mama,” he says warmly, gently smearing the powder on my forearm.

I hate this part of the ritual. Just what Mama wants at the end of a long day— baby-crotch-powder all over my arm. Yaaay.

“Yeah, you sure put that TALCO all over the Mama.”

“Pobo. POOOOBOOO Mama.”

“Sure. Whatever. I’ve been thorough ‘pobo-ed’. Thanks, DragonMonkey.”

I stuff him into some ridiculously cute feetie pajamas, The Bean grabs him, we engage in the kissing ritual, and he finally goes to bed.

Until recently.

Recently, The DragonMonkey has added a new stalling ritual.

Bedtime still starts out the same:

I go to change his diaper.

He develops the sudden, inescapable urge to poo.

We go into the bathroom and try to ignore the obnoxious cat.

Nothing comes out.

We go back into the bedroom and put on a fresh diaper.

He ‘poboes’ my left arm.

I pick him up.

The Bean takes him from me.

We make sure we have the three Bahnkees he has now added to the list of necessary sleep items.

We get ready to engage in the kissing ritual, aaaand…

“A-da, Monkey.”

The Bean and I sigh. Here we go again.

“Good night, stuffed monkey,” we say, as the DragonMonkey waves goodnight to the tiny stuffed monkey dangling from a shelf.

“A-da, toys.”

“Good night, toys,” we repeat in exhaustion, waiting until the DragonMonkey has waved goodnight to to his pile of toys on the shelf.

“A-da, popo.”

“Good night, poop dispenser.”

“A-da, tuck.”

“Good night, toy truck.

“A-da , Caaawr.”

“Good night, toy cars.”

“A-da, doggie.”

“Good night, picture of Clifford.”

“A-da, choo-choo.”

“Good night, trains.”

“A-da, baby.”

“Good night, book with the baby picture on the front.”

And so on, and so forth.

The DragonMonkey draws this process out for as long as he can. We say good night to every single item in his room.

Every toy.

Every stuffed animal.

We bid adieu to the “outside” that is behind his curtains.

We wish “Dot” a good night sleep— although how and when he decided that the picture hanging above his bed was named Dot, I’ll never know.

Every individual monkey, moon, photo, car, toy, book, and other visible noun is wished a good night’s sleep.

When he runs out of ideas and we begin threatening to put him to bed without his kissies, he turns his attention to us. Lately, he’s been lovingly wishing the Bean’s left ear a good night’s rest. “A-da. ‘eja,” (adios, oreja) he says in a familiar tone, his hand patting the top of the Bean’s hand condescendingly.

We would put a stop to this obvious stalling behavior, but frankly it’s a good chance to try to decipher the DragonMonkey’s garbled vocabulary.

Besides, it won’t be too many more years before he’ll resent me coming into his room at night, so I figure I better enjoy this while I can.


Is Stupidity Contagious?

Oh, good heavens.

Same Starbucks, different day, different employee, ACTUAL CONVERSATION:

Customer: “I’d like a 2% vanilla latte.”

Barista (making random conversation): “I’ve always wondered… two percent of what? Where does the other 98% of the milk go? Ha, ha.”

Customer: stunned silence

Barista: “I mean, why are we getting so little of the milk? Where does the rest of it go? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Supervisor (stepping in): “It’s referring to the fat content. This milk only has 2% of the fat left in it.”

Barista: “Wait, so the percentage has to do with how much fat is in it? Milk has fat in it?”

Supervisor: “Yes. Whole milk has all of the ‘fat’ still in it, and 2% milk only has 2% of the fat left in it.”

Barista (sounding stunned): “How do they get the fat out?”

Supervisor: “There’s a whole process they use where they boil it and then collect the cream off the top.”

Barista (sounding doubtful): “So, then, what’s skim milk?”

Supervisor: “Milk with no fat left in it at all.”

Barista: “So there aren’t different kinds of cows out there that give different kinds of milk?”

Supervisor: “No. No, there are no skim cows running around.”

I really need to get my family out of this state before it’s too late.

Spit: It Does a Body Good?

Much to my delight, it turns out that my company has an annual Thanksgiving luncheon potluck. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It’s a holiday filled with all the warmth and togetherness of Christmas and yet none of the family drama. What’s not to like?

Plus, it’s an entire day centered around eating.

Who doesn’t like a holiday that celebrates binging on vast quantities of food?

Angry, communist Nazis, that’s who. Not liking Thanksgiving is practically a sin, in my book.

Thrilled to have a reason to celebrate gorging on fatty, delicious foods my thanks for all of the blessings in my life, I immediately signed up to bring a dessert.

After a week of watching other people sign up for various items, I decided to throw caution to the wind and sign myself up to bring some mashed potatoes as well.

The problem is that life got in the way of my good intentions.

The evening before the party found the Bean working overtime, the DragonMonkey in a viciously whiny mood, the dog suffering from an attack of the runs after eating his way through the trash, and the Squidgelet making my ankles swell as my temper shortened.

By the time I put the finishing touches on the mashed potatoes, I was angry enough to chew nails and spit out bullets.

I no longer felt like cooking.

I no longer felt “thankful” or excited about the party about the next day.

In fact, I downright hated Thanksgiving.

I hated the stupid turkey. I hated the stupid gravy. I hated the stupid mashed potatoes and the stupid stuffing.

I resented my stupid coworkers for making me go through this kind of hellish torture.

This was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the stupidest holiday ever created.

I slammed around the kitchen in a near rage, crashing through cupboards and throwing pots in the sink with enough force that even the dog slunk around the corner and voluntarily kenneled himself for the night.

It took about twice as long as necessary, but I managed to eke out a delicious dessert and some fairly credible mashed potatoes. I threw saran wrap over every thing and huffed off to bed.

Unfortunately, my mood hadn’t improved my morning. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that when I opened the fridge I discovered that my previously fluffy, flavorful mashed potatoes had morphed overnight into a metric ton of solid, white-colored rocks.

I have no idea what happened. Frankly, the more I think about it, it kind of defied the laws of physics. How does a small, one pound Tupperware of mashed potatoes turn into approximately 19 pounds of rocks overnight? It doesn’t seem possible.

Grumpier than ever, I tossed the food into the car, drove to work, lugged it into the breakroom and shoved it into the fridge.

By the time lunchtime rolled around I had managed to pull myself out of my funk. I decided to avoid taking out the potatoes unless it seemed absolutely necessary. After all, even though potatoes were a loss I still had my dessert.

The breakroom was filled with laughing, happy people, and as I placed the dessert on the counter top to peel off the plastic, I found myself drawn into the holiday spirit.

“Ooooh! What is that?” I glanced over my shoulder to see two of my coworkers looking over my shoulder, eyeing my dish hungrily.

“It’s Hermes Delight,” I exclaimed proudly, turning around and holding the dish up in front of me so they could give it all the admiration it deserved. “It’s DEEEE-licious!”


I love Hermes Delight. It really is my favorite dessert. And holding it right in front of my face probably wasn’t the best idea, since I find it so mouthwateringly delicious.

Let me assure you that there is a BIG emphasis on the “mouthwatering” portion of that sentence. My body betrayed me (and not in that sexy Harlequin Romance novel way, either.)

Horrified, I watched as a bit of spit launched itself from my mouth right as I enunciated the “DE” of “DEE-licious”. It felt like some kind of horror movie. I couldn’t even pretend that it wasn’t happening. Like a slow-motion scene out of a bad movie, the spit launched itself in a perfect little arc and landed right in the middle of the dessert.

The three of us stared in horror at the center of my dessert.

Our eyes flicked upwards, then back down at the dessert, then back upwards.

I swear, that was the most awkward silence of my life.

What was I supposed to do? Cut out the middle portion of the dessert? Pretend it didn’t happen? Throw the whole thing away?

After all I went through to bring it to the potluck?

The two coworkers began stammering excuses as they rescued themselves from the situation, leaving me standing by the counter, staring down at my ruined dessert.

Stupid dessert.

Stupid Thanksgiving.

Stupid happy-warm-family-love-cooking-food holiday.

I stared at the dessert for a few more moments, then shrugged.

Reaching into the cupboard in front of me, I grabbed a paper plate, ladled out a gigantic portion from the center of the dish and plopped it in front of me. Ignoring the fact that I was serving myself before anyone else had started, I began grimly chewing my way through the oversized wad.

You know what? It was pretty good. In fact, it was DARN good, although interestingly enough, I was the only person to serve myself from my dish that particular day.

Oh well. It’s their loss. It really was tasty, “extra flavoring” or not.

Hermes Delight
1 large package raspberry jello
1 can whole cranberries
Juice from 1/2 lemon
Green apple
1 8 oz package cream cheese
1 cup sour cream
1 cup powdered sugar
1 can crushed pineapple
Optional: Spit

Make the raspberry jello according to the directions on the box, but only use 1/2 the required amount of water. Put into glass pan. Combine with can of whole cranberries. Zest the skin from the green apples into the mixture and add the juice from 1/2 lemon. Stir, then set into the fridge until completely solid (usually about 2 hours).

In a large bowl, combine cream cheese, sour cream, powdered sugar and crushed pineapple (drain the juice). Smooth onto the top of the jello portion once the jello portion has set properly. Sprinkle crushed pecans on top.

Serve with a garnish of spit to ensure you don’t have to share.

(PS: This is is an incredibly forgiving recipe. I swear, I make it with different amounts of ingredients every time and it always comes out tasty.)

Gmail Ads

Dear Google:

I appreciate that I haven’t been in the very best of moods lately and that some of my recent emails might have reflected my grumpiness.

I understand that the majority of my internet searches, emails, thoughts, and other free time center around horses. What can I say? With only a month left of pregnancy I’m jonesing pretty bad to get back in the saddle again.

I also appreciate that your ads are designed around my email/search content, and not the product of an marketing effort.





I don’t care if it’s a “high-quality unit”.

I don’t care that you’re offering it at discount prices.

Why would you even think I NEED a machine that incinerates animals, much less a “USED” one?

That’s really, really, really gross.


Becky, the non-horse-burning Gmail user

Extenuating Circumstances

I now officially have a free pass to commit a homicide.

There isn’t a jury in the country who would convict me, either.

Allow me to present the evidence.


See yesterday’s post. ‘Nuff said.


Work has been extraordinarily, unbelievably, insanely, and stressfully busy. Yesterday was crazy. Everything that crossed my desk needed to be done five minutes ago. At one point, my boss handed me a dictation device and waited for me to finish typing it out.

By waiting, I mean he came into my office, stood behind my chair with crossed arms, and silently watched me type the words as I listened to them with my headphones.

Then, to make life even a little more interesting, he started proofreading/correcting as I typed. Not only did I have his voice piped into my ears through the headphones, I had him behind me revising and correcting what he had just said. It reminded me eerily of the multitasking I needed to employ during my time as a 911 dispatcher, and I frantically toggled back and forth between the dictation device and the Word document, pausing it as necessary.

After three or four times of flipping back and forth, The Boss asked in an annoyed voice, “What is that thing you keep flipping to while you’re in the middle of trying to get this out for me?”

“It’s the dictation device, Mr Boss.”

“Well, what are you doing with it? This is a top priority project we’re trying to get out.”

“Well, Mr. Boss, when you talk I can’t hear what you’re saying over the sound of your other voice my ear, so I have to pause it.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Well, I guess you can continue to do it, then.”

GEEE. Thanks.


Later that day my boss came into my office again.

“Log onto University A’s website and see what their nearby hotel accomodations are.”

So I did.

“What are you doing, Becky?”

“I’m going to University A’s website, like you said.”

“Why would you be doing that?”

“Ummm… Because you just told me to?”

“Use your brain, girl! Why would I want you to go there? You should know that I am thinking about a future trip in which I will be near University B, and you should have ignored what I told you and have automatically gone to that website. Think, Becky!”


After a few minutes of staring over my shoulder (I hate that), watching me peruse the accommodations near University B, my boss gave an exaggerated shiver and glanced over at the thermostat in my office.

“Aren’t you cold in here? It’s freezing.”

“No, I’m actually kind of warm. It’s because I’m pre–” I intended to say it was because I was pregnant, but Mr. Boss cut me off.

“Oh, yes. That’s right. It’s because you have the extra body fat.”

“Yes, Mr. Boss. It’s because of my extra body fat.” (I think he missed my sarcastic tone.)


After weeks of frantic studying and late-night cramming sessions, The Bean’s finals are almost over. This past week has been especially brutal, and I’ve encouraged him to stay late nights at the university library while I watched the DragonMonkey and took care of all aspects of everyday life in order to give him the extra time he needs to pull A’s in all his classes. At only a month to my due date and with my own 12 hour working days, this is no small sacrifice on my behalf.

To say that we’re both a little exhausted is a bit of an understatement.

Yesterday The Bean received some bad news.

He forgot to put his name on his the scantron for his Accounting final.

Despite the fact that the professor “knows” which grade is his (The Bean had the highest “A” in the class going into the exam and one of the six unnamed tests scored a 98%”) the only option (aside from failing him for a no-show) is to give him the grade of the lowest-scoring unnamed final.

The lowest score is a 48%.

EXHIBIT F (aka The Straw That Broke the Becky’s Back):

The Bean is in an understandably grumpy mood.

I am trying to be accommodating of that fact, and have been trying to do little things to make him feel better.

This morning when he woke up, I leaned over and gave him a kiss.

“Hey, Bean, don’t forget – when I did all your laundry last night, I separated your socks from mine and matched them up. They’re in your sock drawer.”

This may not sound like much, but it is.

I hate laundry.

I truly, truly hate laundry.

I hate socks worst of all. Pairing and matching socks is the bane of my existence. On more than one occasion I’ve been known to just wad all of our socks together in a gigantic lump, cramming them into an overfull drawer. I mean, they’re SOCKS. They’re pieces of cotton that go over stinky, sweaty feet, and then you shove them into stinky, sweaty shoes. As long as you have two of them and they’re relatively the same color, I consider them a pair.

The Bean knows this, so I figured my extra efforts might put him in a good mood.

He yawned deeply, stretched, and then grunted out, “Did you pair them according to overall sock age?”

I stopped. “Huh?”

“When you paired them, did you pair them according to their respective ages and levels of wear and tear?”

I paused, waiting for the punchline.

The Bean looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Wait… are you being serious, Bean?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s just sometimes you will pair them, but you’ll disregard the age of the socks and pair a worn gold-toed black sock with a newer gold-toed black sock, and they don’t really go together…..”

He trailed off as he saw the look in my eyes.

See what I mean? Any murders I decide to engage in today are completely justifiable.

Sexy Dreams

Last night I had some crazy dreams.

No, no, it wasn’t my usual fare of burning orphans,rabid bears savaging my face off, or decaying skeleton husbands come to poke me with branch arms.

Uh-uh. Nope.

Last night I had some crazy GOOD dreams.

Yeah, that’s right.

I had me some Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow dreams, and in the steamiest sense possible.

The Bean and I were obviously the main stars… and let me tell you, we were some sexy, sexy lead characters.

The Bean was about 6’3” and had tanned, chiseled abs.

I was about 5’11” and appeared to be composed entirely of toned, tanned legs and perky boobs. My stomach was completely flat, my waist impossibly narrow, my heiny was firm and shapely, and there wasn’t an inch of chub ANYWHERE on my body.

I’m telling you – Angelina Jolie would have looked at me and felt insecure. I was that hot.

To make matters even better – this was a dream. We didn’t get out of breath. We never had an awkward moment. It was just Hollywood-style, embarrassment-free , good steamy loving all night long. In fact, I’m pretty sure that some of the stuff The Bean and I did in this dream wasn’t even anatomically possible.

Who cares? They’re my dreams, and they were MMmm, Mmmm, GrrrrEAT!

The problem was is that I woke up.

To make matters worse, I woke up quite suddenly— suddenly enough that my body was awash in sensation, the heat of the dream spilling over into real life.

It was still dark outside, probably some time before five in the morning.

I lay there for a moment, waiting for things to cool down enough that I could drift back to sleep.

That’s when it occurred to me – why should I bother waiting? Why not just wake up The Bean and convince him to reenact some of my oh-so-luscious dream? There are worse ways to start off a Tuesday morning, after all.

I figured I could start off with one of the moves I’d just dreamed… I would crawl over to him, catlike, stalking across the bed. He’d be asleep, but even he wouldn’t be able to miss the way the moonlight caught my toned body…. The heat and promise evident in my sleek movements would cause him to wake…. I’d lower myself over his prone form, and my hands would slide slowly up his bare back, nails digging in slightly as I turned him over beneath me.


He’d probably make some kind of deep, appreciative noise and pull me down to him. Our lips would meet, and his hands would slide down the curve of my waist, tightening slowly on my…..


With a sleepy, secretive smile, I prepared to roll over.

I say I prepared to roll over, because that’s when it hit me.



I’m not Angelina Jolie.

I’m Becky.

And I’m 497 months pregnant.

Frustrated at the sudden reminder of reality, I lay there for a moment, trying to get my bearings. Maybe I should just go to sleep?


Still willing to give it a go, I scrabbled at the body pillow beside me, trying to find some kind of purchase to give me enough momentum to heave my vast stomach up over to the other side.

I failed.

I tried again.

I failed again, this time even going so far as to let out a totally unsexy moan in my attempt to change positions.


Mmmmmmmm.” The Bean made an irritated noise in his sleep.

HRRRRRNNNGHHH!” I grunted again, flailing on my back like a horse rolling in the dirt.

Mmmmmmmmmm,” The Bean sounded even more irritable at my noisy intrusion, and flopped over onto his back, mouth agape. He began to snore lightly.

I completed the flip onto my other side, propping myself up on an elbow as I stared moodily down at the slack face of my sleeping husband.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

I considered leaning down to kiss him, then smacked my lips a couple of times. Ew. Morning breath.

The Bean gave a deep, heavy snore.

I sniffed deeply, then wrinkled my nose. EWWW. Morning breath from both of us.

I stared down at him for another timeless moment, wondering if it was even worth it at this point.

The Bean farted.

“GROSS,” I whispered angrily, throwing back the covers to avoid being marinated by fart-scent.

MMMMMMM!” The Bean made an even angrier sound, reaching down with a sleepy hand to find the covers I’d just thrown off of him. He yanked them up over his shoulders, and flopped over onto his side.

Not to be outdone, I gave an impressively deep burp (thanks, Squidgelet, for the acid reflux) and then lowered myself down carefully onto my own pillows.

Oh well. Maybe, if I was lucky, I could go back to sleep and find my way back into the same dream.

My Son the Mumbler

The DragonMonkey has been slow to “speak”.

Well, let me rephrase that:

He speaks all the time. The problem is that he has been slow to enunciate. He’ll say a word perfectly one time and then lose all interest in every pronunciating it correctly again.

“Mama. Purple,” he says, reaching out a chubby hand for the purple crayon I’m coloring with.

“Purple! Very good, DragonMonkey! That’s right, this is purple! Can you say it again?”


I wait for a second, before realizing that’s all that forthcoming.

“Can you say purple?”


Well, duh, Mister Literal, I want to say, but I bite my tongue and try again.

“Say ‘purple’, DragonMonkey.”

He shakes his head no, and continues coloring mutely. I sigh. Yes, he CAN say purple, but NO he won’t do it on command.

I’d worry about him being behind the curve, seeing as how he is over two years old, but the reality is that he comprehends language beautifully. He understands complex sentences in both English and Spanish. He follows detailed directions, and he’s meeting all his milestones. And it’s not like he’s not speaking… No, that’s not the problem.

The problem is that he mumbles. To make matters worse, he mumbles in a strange concoction of half-English, half-Spanish.

While my friend’s toddlers are running around, clearly enunciating (“Mama, no jacket. Me hot. No jacket, please. Sarah want more juice, peez.“) in easily understood sentences, The Bean and I are left playing a strange kind of guessing game in order to figure out what our son needs.

“Zschoop ow. Doh-Owdide.” The DragonMonkey stares up at us expectantly.


“Zschoop ow. Zschoooopppp. OOOOW.”

The Bean and I stare at each other, both shrugging. “You want soup?” I venture as a guess.

“Nyeeeeet.” The DragonMonkey shakes his head in frustration, using his own strangely grammatically-correct version of a Russian “no”. “Azchooop ow Dohowdide.”


“Aschooop ow Dohowdide. DOWHOWDIDE!“The DragonMonkey stares at me in frustration, wringing his hands, and suddenly I’m left feeling like I’m the one who is stupid.

“I’m sorry, babe, but you need to learn how to speak clearly. I have no idea what you’re asking me.” I raise my hands in surrender.

The DragonMonkey heaves a strangely adult sigh, spins around and trots down the hall. He emerges seconds later with a pair of his shoes, and thrusts them into my hands. “Aschhoooop. SCHOOOP,” he repeats slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile.

The light begins to dawn. “OOOOOh Shoes! Zschoop is shoes?”

“Yeah,” says my son, nodding once. “AZSCHOOP OW.” He raises his foot and wiggles his toes at me invitingly.

“Shoes on?” I guess again.

“Yeah,” says my son again, in an approving tone. I find myself absurdly pleased that I’m breaking through the code.

“I figured out another one!” I holler out to the Bean. “‘Azschoop ow’ means ‘Please put my shoes on.’ “

“Well, of course it does. Why didn’t we guess that before?” the Bean hollers back in an amused tone.

I find some socks and tie the laces on his chubby toddler feet. The DragonMonkey glances down and grunts once in approval.

“DoOwDide.” He stares up at me, awaiting my response.

I stare back at him blankly.

My son heaves another heavy sigh, and grabs my hand, dragging me behind him to the front door. “DoOwDide. OwDIDE.”

Once again, my dim little light bulb flickers. “Go outside?”

“Yeah!” says my son happily, apparently thrilled at my learning curve.

And so on, and so forth.

Why can’t he learn to enunciate?

Even now, as I’m typing, he’s standing beside me, trailing out a line of gibberish that’s completely uncomprehensible to anyone but him.

Ma joop = Mas (spanish for more) chips
Agua= (spanish for water)
Doggie = (fairly obvious)
Bobo= Globo (spanish for balloon)
Bubuu= Bubbles
Mama bubuu bubuu bubuuuuuuuuu= Mother, would you like to join me in the bathtub?
Nyet= No
Dat = Cat
Doh = Go.
Eeeheeeeeheeeee! = Horse (that’s the sound they make when they neigh, after all.)
Yeah = Yeah
Da Pooo! Da POOO! = Look! Feces! My favorite thing to get excited about!
Da BOAT!= Look! Bolt the movie! It’s on.. and gee, it’s only the 346 millionth time today. Yaay!
MINE= How odd that this is one word he doesn’t have ANY trouble enunciating.
Awa Ot= Mother, I would like up. Would you lift me up, please?
Mome = Cell Phone
Owgo = Jugo (spanish for juice)
Baboon = Candy/cookies
Papoh = Popcorn
Ow Dah
= All done
Awa Dow = I want down
Ada = Alla (spanish for over there.)

The list goes on. He’s speaking, but I have the strange sensation he’s the one who is teaching us HIS language instead of the other way around.

Ma? Ma? Ma Baboon. Aww Deh? MINE. Ma! Ma Baboon! Aww Deh? MA! Awa Ot. Owgo? Owgo? DOGGIE! Ba Ma! Bah Ma! Doh! Nyet! MINE. MINE JOOP. Bah! MINE! Mama! Awa Ot!

Translation: “More? More? More cookies. All done? But they’re MINE! I want up. Juice? Juice?”

At this point he looks over and notices Max has found the little bowl of veggie chips he set down on the ground and is greedily inhaling them. “Doggie! Bad Max! Go! No! MINE. MY CHIPS. BAD! MINE!”

Having chased off the dog, he returns to his previous cajoling. “Mama! I want up!”

Kid, you’re killing me.