It’s not just that it’s his first word—Dada—it’s that he says it
all the time. It’s his only real word, other than “Ssssssssssss,” which I suspect means Cass. It’s not just that I’m the only person he doesn’t address by gaga moniker. It’s that he taunts me with it. Every morning and every night, I feed him, hold him, whisper in his ear and caress that pudgy little body before gingerly placing him in his crib and rubbing his back; he gets all dreary-eyed, lovey, soft-spoken, and starts whispering
Dada. I walk him around the house, because sitting is so 10-months-old already, his little hands gripping my forefingers. He gets so excited, the baby version of foaming at the mouth:
Dada, Dada, Dada.
I work with him regularly.
Mama. He said it on one occasion, three times. Drawn out. In the middle of the night. Sick and moaning. He called
Mama so desperately—and so clearly I thought it was Cass. Then he got better. I am still waiting for more.
