"What???"

Brother is becoming quite the linguist. And he's pretty understandable for the most part. Its funny to get him to say bigger words, because he has the enviable gift of turning a 3 syllable word into a 2 paragraph declarative statement. I learned this when I was preparing a pizza casserole with the kids a few weeks back.

"Pizza casserole." I recited for him, not expecting him to be able to pronounce it in any semblance.

"Pissa..." He began uncertainly, "Pissa cassa--.... whoa."

Yes. "Casserole" now comes with a lengthy pause between syllables and no R's in sight. Its pretty cute.

But there are some words that he will shout randomly that have made me stop and stare wide-eyed at him, wondering how such a small little boy could have a vocabulary so reminiscient of a prison inmate and/or pirate.

For instance, after washing his hands, he'll point at the tank on the shelf above my shoulder and shout "F***!!"

"Um, no, dude. Those are called FROGS.... Ffff-roooo-gggggg-ssss."

"F***!!"

"Nevermind."

Later on, playing with his toys in the living room, he'll excitedly point at the mantle and yell "C**k!!"

"Cccc-lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll-ock, Brother, CLOCK."

After lunch, I'll be helping him out of his high chair, listening to him chatter. One day about a month ago, just as I leaned toward him to unbuckle his chair, he pointed at my face and exclaimed for the first time, "F***ER!!!"

Excuse me?

Logic enters my mind first: You're not saying what I think you're saying. You don't know that word. This is illogical. Your parents don't use that word. I don't use that word. You don't frequent nightclubs. What are you trying to say??... Well, I mean, he's SAYING it as clear as day. But I don't think he's intending to. Quick recap, are there frogs nearby? Suckers? Anything that could be mispronounced as "f***er" to a 20 month old? Come on now...

"What did you say, Brother?" I asked surprised, leaning closer to him for a better listen, hoping against hope I misunderstood him.

"F***er!" He shouts again, pleased with himself.

I look around desperately for anything he could be talking about... Table-- no... Chair-- no... Sister-- no... Fruit---?

"Fruit, Brother? Do you want some fruit? Is that what you're saying?"

"F***er!" He insists, pointing directly at my face.

Now, I can take a lot. But come on. We're friends, little man! And I hate to pull the guilt card, but the girl who wipes your bottom, feeds you yummy food, indulges your sweet tooth, hugs you when you're sad, tickles you, plays with you, and cuddles you when you're not feeling well does NOT deserve to be called "f***er", little dude. We need to hash out this bad blood you're feeling. Right here, right now. 'Cuz homie? She don't even play that game.**

I patiently put my face up to his grinning one. "I don't know what you're trying to say." I tell him calmly.

"F***er." He tells me again, putting a little finger gently on my cheek.

Realization hits.

"Freckle, dude. Fffff-rrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeee-ckllllllle."





**Editor's note: Apparently, my thought life turns slightly gangster under confusion. I assure my readers that I do not generally consider myself a homie. Nor do I possess full understanding of 'that game' that is allegedly not good to 'play'. Thank you and good night.