August, at 13 months old, is having a fabulous time practicing his skills.  He likes to go up and down the single step that separates our kitchen from our laundry room, rifle through the recycling bin, play in the toilet, and try to crash the gate we have set up that keeps him from getting into all sorts of trouble on the stairs.

He’s also learning how to talk–in no uncertain terms.

When Don walks into the room, it’s “Da Da.”  When Edgar walks into the room, it’s “Egger.”  When he sees a baby in a book, it’s “bah-bee.”  And anything else, it’s “duggie.”

Oscar is “duggie.”  I am “duggie.”  A photograph of a horse is a “duggie.”  A train is a “duggie.”

And if you deign to tell August that something is not a “duggie,” he becomes alternately crestfallen and indignant, shouting “duggie” all the louder.

Ah, to be 13 months . . . you can say and do precisely what you want and everyone finds it charming.

August sitting in his "duggie" reading a "duggie"


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