“Aye a beebee.”
He had pulled himself onto the couch, unassisted, and sprawled out on the quilt that is ALWAYS spread on the couch. He smiled, tickled at his own little game.
“You’ll always be my baby, bud,” I say from across the room.
“Momma, EAT,” he says, poking his mouth furiously. “Eat EAT eat!”
“Alright, bud,” I say, rising from the couch. “What are you hungry for?”
“Jeh-yoh,” he answered, and pulled it from the refrigerator once it was opened for him.
“How was your day?” I ask as we walk to the car from daycare.
“Gud,” he answers, too busy with waving buh-buh to everyone as we passed.
“I’m so glad!” I struggle to lift him into the car. He’s so stout, a little mass of hulk babyness with blue eyes and dimples. “Let’s go home and feed Little Dog.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head as I weave his arms through the seat belt of his carseat. “See PaPa and Nonna?”
“No, buddy,” I say as I slide into my own seat. “We’re going to our house.”
“No, honey. Not Aunt Jenni. HOME. Our house. Someone has to feed Little Dog! Won’t you help me feed Little Dog?”
“Damnit, woman, I have just spent my entire day in a room with five other two year old boys and I’m damn tired of being treated like my opinions, wants, and needs are superfluous to whatever YOU have deemed a necessary itinerary for the evening! Now why don’t you shut the hell up and turn this damn piece of shit car around and head to FREAKING PAPA AND NONNA’S HOUSE BEFORE I BUST A CAP IN YO ASS!”
“What, buddy?” I say as we sit at the stoplight. “Can you help me feed Little Dog?”
He sighs. “Yah.”
One day we’ll speak the same language.