Bock Bars.

My son is, undoubtedly, the funniest person in the world.  Ever.  And I even saw Jim Gaffigan live this past September.  (For the record, people say that I look like I should be related to him, and it's not at all a stretch to say that my dad, circa 1987, could have passed quite easily for a member of the Gaffigan clan).

Anyway, mon fils loves to eat.  He's just really good at it.  Sometimes, I actually worry that he's not getting enough to eat because his travels into the kitchen, pointing at whatever food items he can spot, are many.  At any rate, a couple of months ago, he was introduced to waffles and l-o-v-e-d loved them.  But, because we're not big waffle eaters around here, his next Adventure in Waffle-ry would have to wait until this week.  Developmentally, the greatest change in my boy since his last meeting with this edible graph paper is his ability to use words.  He has learned several words, and even demonstrates an understanding of their meaning.  And, when words escape him, he has learned, certainly, to use sounds to convey a message.  In this case, he has taken to referring to his beloved waffles as "bock bars."  He walks around babbling almost incessently about the too-sweet-for-breakfast-but-we-somehow-justify-it-anyway delight.  Except, of course, when he engages in his daily ritual of pointing at me, saying "Mama", and then pointing at everything else in the area and saying, "No Mama."

Joe and I have had plenty of discussions regarding how we want to handle various disciplinary situations with our boy, and have concluded one thing: we will have to be very careful to refrain from laughter {while Mr. A. is in earshot) when our sweet and innocent child first utters a swear word without knowing it.  I am positive that there will be plenty of other circumstances that will require us to adopt a similar level of stoicism.

Take this example of my parents needing to exercise restraint:

When my sister and I were kids, we were very angry with our mom and dad.  Who even knows why.  At any rate, it was of utmost importance that we convey to them the extent of our outrage.  And so, we did what any reasonable kids would do--we picketed.  We literally got out a couple of yardsticks, to which we attached papers that said something along the lines of "Unfair Parents" and "We Hate Our Parents", and we proceeded to march around our house.  Laugh if you want, this was an incredibly serious affair.  It was everything my parents could do to contain themselves.