So. It will not come as news to anyone who's spent more than a few minutes around me, sans children, that verbally I tend to, well…get a bit carried away. I know, and yet. I've had drunken sailors say to me, "dude, really?"
So early this morn, before 7am, all the girls are still asleep. Top Management and I are the only ones up, along with The Dudes. We both become gradually aware that The Boy is walking around saying, "Gammid…gammid…gammid…"
A quick note: since The Boy has hearing loss, the world sorta sounds to him like Charlie Brown's teacher, just a string of vowel sounds rising and falling. So when he speaks, he often takes his best guess at roughly which consonant sound goes where. Hence "gammid." This also makes me, perhaps foolishly, feel a tad freer about how vigilant I need to be around him. Also hence "gammid."
"He's saying it again," Top Management sighs. "You have to stop saying that around him!"
I say, "I haven't! I mean, not today. And not last night."
I stop and think for a moment, then walk into the kitchen. Where I see The Baby on his belly. Having ripped open and enthusiastically dissecting a Reese's mini peanut butter cup that's fallen from someone's Halloween stash.
The Boy walks over and stands next to me and looks down at The Baby, happily covered in chocolate and peanut butter goodness, then looks up and me and shakes his head. "Gammid," he says affectionately, smiling companionably as he reaches over and takes my hand.