Growing up, I referred to my little sis as Judy Doodie. Mostly to torment her, but eventually, it just became a habit. I can't remember when I stopped, probably when she got married, I think. Which was two years ago.
Judy visited this weekend with baby Margo. Who isn't yet talking but someday, I will be sure to tell her about her mom's alter ego, Judy Doodie. Sunday afternoon, Max had pooped, and I was changing him. "Max made a big dooooodie," I sang. We often sing ridiculous poop songs at our house, and if you'd like the CD, I'll let you know once we've recorded it. Anyway, Judy walked by Max's room. Max gestured at her, said his version of "Aunt Judy," then pointed at his pull-up.
At first, I didn't get it. Then it dawned on me.
"Judy and doodie rhyme! Right, Max?" I asked.
Max grinned and nodded vigorously.
"Judy Doodie! Judy Doodie! Judy Doodie!" I chanted, and Max laughed.
It is fascinating to see him beginning to understand how language and words work. First the sight-reading kicked in and now, he's getting rhymes. Actually, he is fond of invoking doodie; the first joke he ever told me involved lion crap. (You'd think potty training would be proceeding at a rapid pace, but, no.)
Sabrina's development is fascinating to me, too. Every afternoon, I watch her sit there with a workbook in which she has to fill in missing letters (like B __ T, with a picture of a bat), hear her spelling the word out loud—"Buh-aaaa-aaaat"—and smile as she figures it out.
I take none of this for granted; both my kids' language development is wondrous to me. Sabrina's because I can't believe this stuff is coming naturally to her, without speech therapy or a communication device or much coaxing from me. And Max's? Because we were told he might never talk. And that he might have severe mental retardation.
And now he's rhyming. And carrying on the tradition of Judy Doodie, no less.
Now sure how my sis feels about that. Me, I'm pretty psyched.
