Today, Boobaby pointed at a pile on the sidewalk and announced for all bystanders:
This being San Francisco, my response was:
“Yep, I sure hope so.”
Boo is also fond of announcing “Daddy boo-boo” to everyone at the park while picking at the razor bumps and ingrown hairs on my face. Those little white-cap pimples are “Daddy bubbles.” Nice. She even suggests Band-Aids for the worst of my acne, which, to be fair, would actually improve things a bit.
No one told me about this part of language acquisition. I was sort of hoping Boo would be learning names for flowers and birds. Instead, she’s got all the excrement vocabulary you can imagine, and some you shouldn’t.
I’m not even going to tell you what she means by “wah-wah poopy” — you don’t want to know. I sure don’t mind — after sitting through ten solid minutes of my lovely daughter pointing to her crotch and saying “Hoo-Hoo! Hoo-Hoo! Mine!” on the bus, a graphic description of flatulence is no big thing.