Let me preface this by saying that I know our 3-month old daughter is not saying complicated two syllable words -- or any words, aside from something that starts with "Abu" and ends with her chin covered in a beard of spit.
I get this. We actually have a pediatrician approved baby manual that keeps us apprised of upcoming milestones. Baby might effortlessly drench the front of her onesie at 3 months; Baby might begin speaking recognizable words is chapters from here.
Still: She's saying the word "hungry."
It's actually more like "ung-gee, ung-gee" but she says it right around the time someone tuned into her clocks would suspect she is actually ... Ung-gee.
I've thought she was saying it for a while but I kept it to myself because it's crazy-talk and the sort of delusions of grandeur that give elementary school teachers something to laugh their asses off at while hiding in a bathroom stall during parent-teacher conferences. So I knew what Chuck was talking about when he said he thought she was saying "hungry."
"The ung-gee thing?" I said.
We tell this fun not-possibly fact to the people who come in contact with her. This past weekend the Parents Pista were in town and they heard it too. Ung-gee. Ung-gee. Multiple times.
"Baby girl," I said at Sammy's Pizza as she began to fuss. "Are you hungry?"
"Ung-gee, ung-gee," she said and we all heard it and we all laughed.
None of us will say in a non joking way that we believe she is saying "hungry." It's impossible. That would mean genius, right? And genius is such a burden. No one wants that.
This is also the week where I set her on the bed, slipped into sweatpants, turned around and she was face planted in the bedspread. Like some giant spatula came down from the sky and flipped her like a pancake. Of course she hates being on her stomach, so she cried and grunted and was trying so hard to get out of this jam that all she could do is fart. The fart, it seems, is her battle cry.
A few days ago I was at Subway and saw a preggo standing in line. I had to stop myself from grabbing her arm and saying "I WAS PREGNANT TOO!"
Everything about being pregnant is so weird that you forget it's a pretty common state. Sometimes I miss it. It was so terrifying and exciting and encumbering and terrible. And everything tasted so damn good.
But sometimes I think: I'm not pregnant anymore so I can do a cartwheel if I want and take a hot bath without poaching a fetus and, hell, I can go out and try to catch listeria if I want because I'm catching rare illnesses for one now. It's very liberating.
Anyway, somewhere in the past week or two we woke up to a real baby. One that bounces with excitement and speaks in tongues. One that is neither happy nor sad -- still just curious -- about how her legs move in water, but is thrilled with the 7-Up effect of farting in water. One who twists 45 degrees, cozies into a corner of her bed and rolls onto her side. One who nonchalantly grabs fistfuls of your hair or bottom lip. One who beams at the baby in the mirror and tries to touch her hand.
One who I suspect might not be a future ballet dancer, rather might want to be a bulldozer.