Not yet, kid...

For all of the fretting I did about the fact that Brigid wasn't talking all that much when she turned two, it turns out that my pediatrician, who has only been dealing with children (including two of her own) for years, actually did know what she was talking about when she said we'd wake up one day, and Brigid would be talking up a storm.

Who'd have thunk it, right?

Anyway, Brigid is, in fact, talking up a storm these days. She will repeat anything that you say, which is funny when what you say is 'let's find a cheap buy', but not as humorous when what you say involves the words...oh, I don't know...let's go with 'damn it'.

(WATCH YOUR MOUTH, STEVE!!!)

(In Steve's defense, my language is not as clean as it should be. But as of right now, he's the only one who has caused my kid to swear at this point in her life...so I am nominating myself for parent-of-the-year in my household. Obviously.)

(Except for the fact that Brigid scraped up her chin by tripping and falling in the basement, and if you ask her who gave her that boo-boo on her chin, she will, in fact, say mom-mom. Just because I happened to be in the room when it happened. They may deduct POY points for that...)

Of course, half of the things that she says are only decipherable if you know the exact context in which she is using her words, which is why we had no idea up-ple meant apple, not up, and stee-vee meant Snoopy, not tv, until we'd been through 45 minutes of trying to hand her anything within our line of sight, and suffered through a toddler meltdown of epic proportions because 'OMG YOU GUYS! JUST GIVE ME MY DAMN APPLE ALREADY!'.

But it's ok. I'll deal with it, because living with a two-year old parrot is kind of the cutest thing ever.

Except, well...she keeps calling me mom. MOM. Not mom-mom (which she does most of the time) or mommy (which she just started doing last night), but mom. Just mom.

I...wait...what?

Sorry kid, I will not answer to that. You will not get away with being all cute, and loving, and daddy calling around your father, only to morph into teenager mode with attitude and a mom on my end. I am mommy, for at least another couple of years.

And if you can remember that, I promise to share all of my M&Ms with you, whenever you want them.

Mommy.

(See? Parent-of-the-year. I win.)