|Early signs of comic genius. Or contrariness.|
Not content with being a rather infamous swordsman, young Ned is now playing a rather elaborate joke on me. Out of all of our multitude of kids, he’s definitely the mummy’s boy, and can’t bear to be separately from his mum. Where most other babies start their babbling with “dada“, which is easier to say than “mumma“, he put in the extra hours of practice to say “mumma” and has said it pretty consistently since.
Until very recently I’ve had to put up with being called mumma too. Every time he’s called me mumma, I’ve said, “No Ned, it’s not mumma, it’s dadda.”
Finally my attempts to get proper recognition have met with (limited) success. Ned has now deigned to call me “not mumma“.
I usually get called this as I attempt to get Ned to not do something stupendously dangerous. You know, like standing on the sofa arm ready to face plant right on to the sofa, or whacking someone repeatedly with a sword or lightsaber.
He knows what he’s up to. He’s clever for an 20 month old…