I love making random noises and it’s always seemed as though everyone around me does too. I make strange sounds and love them, but I now realize they have meaning. Based on that, I formed by first real word but its meaning seems completely lost on everyone… well, everyone except dad.
My first word to bear meaning is “da-da.” And, in case you don’t speak my language, I’ll define it for you: “Da-da” means want, gimme, pick me up and let me out of my playpen. It’s alot for a first word to mean, but as it’s the only word under my belt it’s got to be diverse.
My dad’s been trying like mad to teach me this one since pretty much forever. He understands me when I say it. He gives me what I want, picks me up, rescues me from the playpen, whatever it takes. And all I’ve got to say is “Da-da.” I guess he appreciates my playpen predicament as he always promptly extracts me from it.
He’s not just biased, I’m sure. Daddy gets my da-da desires like nobody else does.
Imagine this: I’m stuck in my playpen and bored out of whatever a gourd may be, and so I call out “da-da” to passersby such as bro-Patrick or my own supervisor Brendan Alexander, and they just smile and poke me.