Long before my wife ever got pregnant, I swore that if I were to ever have a child, I would absolutely not engage in the “goo-ga” baby-talk that adults are so apt to do with the wee little ones. Well, I can’t say that I kept my promise entirely, but my version of baby-talk is a tad different. I’m not sure how or why it happened, but when I “baby-talk” with Ted it’s usually with a sort of Louisiana bayou inflection. Think Adam Sandler in The Water Boy.

“Who dat?” “Who dat?” “Dat’s da momma!”

The other “Baby Talk” of course is the talking that babies themselves do. Now, Ted doesn’t talk a whole lot yet, or really at all, but this morning he was making all sorts of noises as I was holding him as if he was trying to tell me a story. His voice (in my head) is spoken with a British accent. I don’t know why. There’s no good reason why he would start speaking with a British accent unless we decide to send him off to some London boarding school real early.

“Errr… Ehhh… Grrr… Ah, ah, ah… … …”

Fathers and sons have a special bond, so allow me to translate as I know exactly what he was saying.

“Father, pay attention to me, please. Why won’t my fist fit in my mouth? I have to poop. Correction, I have indeed pooped myself. I like boobies.”