Speech Therapy

My youngest son, Trent, is in speech therapy.  It's going pretty well.  He says all kinds of words now, and more and more often he will spout off a word that he hears one of us say, and it will surprise and delight us.  


Last night Andrew and I were watching The Hangover because it seemed like the entire world was raving about it a year ago and we never got around to seeing it.  All the kids were in bed, but Trent wouldn't stop crying, and after we'd paused the movie about eight times to try to get him to go to sleep I gave up and brought him downstairs hoping he'd fall asleep on my lap.  


But no - Trent watched that movie with serious intensity.  When it got to the part where Heather Graham breastfeeds the baby and it shows the entire breast being plucked from the shirt, Andrew looked at me in shock and said, "Did you see that boob?"


Queue the two-year-old who spouts, "BOOB!"


And of course, because Andrew and I are such mature parents we laughed like a couple of school children.  So guess who thinks "boob" is a hilarious word now?  That's right.  Trent, the Wonder-Talker.


I was a little worried that Trent would demonstrate his new word for his speech therapist when she came to our house this morning, but he behaved and "boob" didn't make an appearance, (verbally or otherwise).


The speech therapist did leave a CD of the most annoying children's songs ever recorded for Trent to listen to, and I dutifully played the CD when she left.  Trent loved it, and I was singing along...


"Puppy!  Puppy!  
Where are you?
Where are you?
Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof woof woof!"


This CD was really aggravating Drew, who is four, talks pretty well, and who's musical tastes lean more towards Pink and Kevin McHale, shouted over the kiddie rap, "Mom!  Stop it!  You're making me PISSED!"


So that pretty much proves that none of our kids really need speech therapy, because Andrew and I will eventually teach them all the words they really need to know.