first words

Baby G has been saying “mama.” The first time I heard it, I assumed he was being ironic.

Weeks later, I’m pretty sure he’s just screwing with me. After all, the kid understands and says far more complicated syllable combinations: apple, cereal, Ferdinand (his bed buddy, a harbor seal puppet). He even knows some Spanish words. (In an attempt to raise him brilliant and bilingual, I’ve been freely employing all eleven nouns I remember from high school Spanish). He points at a water bottle, or rain, or ice, or even humidifier mist, and says “agua.” Yet, he points at me and says “mama.”

So my boy can identify water as liquid, solid, and gas, but has trouble saying the sound “da” twice? I don’t buy it.

“Dada,” I’ll correct.

“Mama.”

“Dada!”

And so on. He squeals with delight. The word “mama” has developed the taboo allure of a toaster oven cord.

Sure, I’ve given him other options: Dad, Papa, Father–even “Da.”

“G, I know you can say ‘Da.’”

“Mama.”

Maybe it’s my fault. He’s been engaging in this sort of wordplay since his very first word. “Banana!” he shouted one morning at breakfast, pointing at me. I should have nipped it in the bud, right then. But I was so proud his first word was tri-syllabic, I instead got busy Googling “early signs of genius” on my phone.

A friend, hearing of my dilemma, gave me a fantastic book by Jimmy Fallon called “Your Baby’s First Word will be Dada.” On each page is a father and baby of a particular animal. The father pig says “Dada,” to which the baby pig says, “oink.” The father horse, “Dada,” the baby horse, “neigh.” And so on. After a week of reading, G had all the animal noises down. Ne’er a “dada”.

So is G really toying with me, or have I short circuited some essential attachment mechanism? I made a note to ask the pediatrician at G’s next appointment, though I’m hesitant. The doctor seemed a bit standoffish on our last visit. (I’d brought G in convinced he was experiencing ennui. “Not ennui,” the doctor said, “he’s teething.”)

After dinner on election night, yearning for at least a morsel of coherence, I attacked the problem with renewed focus: I tried reverse psychology. I pointed to myself and said “mama.” With a big grin, he threw his arms around me and replied: “Mama, mama, mama!” He’d won.

And just when I’d let go of it all and melted into his embrace–as Mama, Dada, as anyone he needed me to be–he lifted up his finger, pointed at Ferdinand on the floor, and pulling his face back to watch mine, said “mama.”

Was it a metaphor? Mama is a puppet? Or maybe, just maybe, “mama” represents the things G cherishes most, needs most, and holds for comfort and safety.

“You’re a banana,” I said, “banana, banana.” He giggled and we lay cuddled on the living room floor as election results scrolled across the muted TV behind us.