I Don't Speak Baby

I don’t understand your baby talk. There, I said it.

For full effect, download “Walk Like A Man” by The Four Seasons and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

This afternoon while feasting over the American imitation of not-so-Mexican food with a couple of buddies, I felt like a sore thumb standing out in an Asian country unable to understand the discussion that was going on between them. You realize at this point in my life, almost all of my friends are either A. Married B. With children, C. About to get divorced or D. All of the above. These two chums fell in both categories A and B, and my confusion began to mount when I came to the understanding that I don’t speak baby. 

When I say I don’t speak baby, I’m not talking about the googoos and the gagas, and the “this little piggy went to the market” vernacular that most parents abuse in order to make sure their own offspring develop speech impediments before they turn three. No, that stuff is easy to figure out and decipher. What I mean is the lingo that my married mates toss back and forth with each other when discussing the tools to raising a child. And as one of them was balancing his four-month old son next to his pork salad, oh how their discussion started to flow.

Keith: “So have you got the bumbo yet?

Quin: “No not yet, he’s not really developed for it yet. He does well in his playard though.”

Keith: “That’s good. Is he still on Enfamil, or Similac? Which one do you use for him?”

Quin: “We haven’t weaned him off of those yet. He sure does love his binky.”

Binky? Wait, I think I caught that last one. That’s that little plastic thingy that’s shaped like a nipple that you shove in their face to get them to shut up at 3:20 in the morning right?

The conversation then shifted gears as they started discussing sleeping patterns, and naptime schedules, and little things that amuse the kid in three-minute increments. Again, all of their dialogue is foreign to me. I’m a single man whose life schedule is organized by primetime sporting events on ESPN. I have no idea what it’s like to have a four-month old poop pusher rule my life. I’m not saying I don’t ever want to be ruled by a poop pusher but at this point, a poop pusher doesn’t have a stronghold grip on my focus like he does on these guys.

Quin: “He has such as short attention span. Like I wish he could focus long enough to understand the storyline of Finding Nemo. But no, he gets bored and starts looking for my thumb to start sucking on.”

Oh the little joys in life, to one day have the privilege of knowing your child can have his brain repeatedly occupied by a Royal Blue Tang with A.D.D.

I think I’m a semi-intelligent guy, that’s safe to say isn’t it? I mean, I’m no brain surgeon, I didn’t graduate as a valedictorian at any level of education, and I can’t properly use words that have more than four syllables in them, but I think I can keep up with the rest of the world. Heck, if I can understand the plotline for the season finale of Lost, why can’t I understand what they’re talking about when they go all foreign on me with their babytalk?

Keith: “It’s because you don’t have one of these things yet Brock. And one day when you do, one day when you finally have a kid, all of this stuff we’re talking about will make sense.”   

One day, huh Keith? Alright, I hear ya. One day I just might be able to speak their language. I just might be able to know the definitions for Bumbo, and playard, and Similac. And maybe one day I just might be holding on to a little poop pusher sucking on my finger while I repeatedly doze off into a pork salad.

Yeah, that’ll be the day…