"Noah," said his mother, her exasperation tempered by laughter. "Why is it that you can say 'truck,' 'teeth,' 'cup,' 'daddy,' and 'zzzzz,' but you won't say 'mama'?
"And you only say 'zzzzz' for Daddy."
This was the truth, as far is it goes. Only a parental interpreter could decipher 'truck' and 'teeth' in his last-consonant-only locution, but there's no doubt what he's talking about when he says them. 'Cup' anybody could recognize. And when we get to the end of Goodnight Gorilla, Noah likes to imitate my rendering of Gorilla's snore. But as for the theory that 'mama' is a child's first word, Noah is the bull-headed exception to that rule.
As bull-headed as his mother, one might be tempted to say, were it not for the fact that his old man makes a draft mule look yielding.
After a week of fatherly prodding, Noah did manage a string of 'ma ma ma's last night. But not before, according to Liz, dropping both 'owl' and 'hoot' in the preceding 24 hours.
Today he said 'cheese.' Then went back to his usual button-pushing routine, turning the stereo on and off on extreme tiptoe, pulling the hair around my belly button, stealthily removing all the Kleenexes from the tissue box, nibbling the nap off the stairway carpet, stuffing avocado chunks between his butt and the high chair, and making me read My First Truck Book in a never-ending loop.
