Pete has seemed to be getting the idea of language lately. He picks up his books and pages through them while babbling. He points at things around the house, generally the Christmas ornaments and ceiling fans, and likes it when we name the things.
And THEN. Yesterday evening, I went to get Pete at day care. He was with another baby (Ezra, the younger son of [praitis] and Roger Hill) and two of the women who care for him. When I arrived, Pete was uncommonly cheerful; he smiled and clapped and reached for me to pick him up. When I did, he turned to the other adults, smiled again, and said,
The bell of the proverb could not have been clearer. The other three adults were agog.
And then I had to explain that we don't call me Dada, or even Dad. (I'm Papa.) Pete might hear other people call me Dad occasionally, but not often, and almost never Dada. "Dada"--in keeping with the movement of modern art that goes by that name--is just a sound Pete happens to be able to make.
It was a great moment, though.