Don't Burst His Bubble

Number Two loves balls. His own, of course (what boy doesn't?), but also the other varieties: beach, base, basket, tennis, foam, and bouncy, just to name a few. His infatuation started with a balloon and now that's what he calls all these round objects, invoking the name with a precise glee that contradicts his otherwise meager vocabulary. My boy cannot--dare I say will not--utter the word "mama," but balloon rolls off his tongue with a smooth "ball" and then an "OON" that pops.

He could play with his balls all day (not unlike The Partner, though in that case I'm again referring to the baser definition). Number Two once had a pink helium-filled balloon that he chased around the house for a week until it was nothing but a pathetic choking hazard. He learned to walk, I believe, because it was easier to carry balls that way. He won't eat when in the presence of balls because food just isn't as interesting.

I was worried about his lack of vocabulary until "balloon" came along. Now I realize he only says what he wants to say. He is pointed. He is determined. He is a toddling, ball-holding bundle of obsession.

My baby boy's got balls.