Sophiapea is sprouting quite the vocabulary these days. New words crop up nearly every day. Granted, some of them probably make sense only in context, or based on the fact that I am becoming more adept at reading between the lines of toddler-ish. She tries to say everything.
“Sophia, do you see the car?”
“Carck! Carck! Carck!”
“Do you want to swing, Sofi?”
“Do you like the puppy?”
She listens to everything, absorbs everything, and is turning into quite the little copycat, when it comes down to it. The only word she absolutely WILL. NOT. SAY. (Believe me, I’ve been trying to get her to say it for MONTHS now) is that ever-precious, sought-after, “Mama.” She says “Daddy”, though she’s pretty coy about it, but she flat out refuses to say “Mama”. I don’t get it. I know she could, if she wanted to… heck, at this point, I’d settle for just about anything that she would say consistently for “Mama” . Did I mention she has also learned the word “No”? Or “Doe”, as she likes to say. Allow me to share with you one of these heartwarming conversations, which are usually between my Superman, Sophiapea, and me, or sometimes just Sophiapea and me.
Superman: “Sophia, say Daddy.”
Sophiapea (grinning wildly): “Doe”
Me: “How about Mommy, Sofi? Will you say Mommy?”
Superman: “Come on, Sofi, say Daddy, just once.”
This exact exchange continues for a few minutes before Sophia, practically giggling, finally says “Dad-dee”. After laughter and kisses all round, all attention is focused on the “M-word”
Superman: “Sophia, say mommy now. Mom–mee.”
Me: “Come on, Sophia! Say Mommy!”
The difference in this latter exchange is that it will continue on… and on… and on… with Sophia only ever saying “doe”, giggling profusely, and giving me kisses. I kid you not. Oh, she knows what she’s doing! She knows that after day-in and day-out of being at her beck-and-call, official-reader-of-books, sometimes official reader of ONE book, over and over, bringer of drinks, decipherer of toddler-ish (not as simple as you might think, given the few conversations I’ve transcribed for you here), maker of snacks, cleaner of diapers, cleaner of all the messes she constantly makes, and after ALL of the work that goes into being a stay-at-home mom, she knows that I would just really like to hear her say Mama. And for some diabolical reason hitherto unknown to me, she refuses. I think I give up. Maybe the one that’s baking right now will like me more…
Okay, that’s a lie. I’m not giving up. She WILL say it, sooner or later. Probably later, but I’m sure she will turn into a child who shouts, “MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY! MOOOOOOOMMMY!” from across the house, and when I go running, looks up at me innocently and says “I dropped my crayon.”
That will come. She might be 12, but I’m sure it will happen. Until then, if the little rat says “grandpa” or “grandma” or any of her aunts and uncles names when we’re back visiting Kentucky in a few weeks, I will probably have a meltdown. Not just any meltdown. A crazy, psycho, pregnant-lady meltdown, induced by the cruelty of a toddler for whom I endured childbirth, would sacrifice anything, and do everything for, and helped along by the crazy hormones that result from trying to bake another of these sweet, diabolical beasts.
I like to think that since I’m here all the time–for morning snuggles, sticky oatmeal kisses, drinks, and can’t-find-the-teddybear tragedies–she just doesn’t realize there’s a name for what I am.
Then again, maybe she thinks my name is “dreeeee”
(“drink” in toddler-ish)