A couple of months ago, I was listening to an interview with award-winning novelist Yann Martel. A new father, he was commenting on his recent overuse of the word "cute". He mused at how strange it was that while he made his living stringing together elegant phrases, he couldn't help but resort to "cute". His infant son's complete and overwhelming cuteness demanded that he regress.
Before I became a parent, I swore I'd never use baby babble. I feared that it would not only inhibit the intellectual development of my child, but would stunt my own progress. I vowed I would never refer to myself in third person. I swore I'd avoid using a squeaky voice to sing the praises of someone's teeny little toes. I hoped I would be able to hang onto some degree of eloquence.
Like Martel, I've fallen into a new, goofy mindset. I coo over chubby legs and fluffy toys. I ask ridiculous, rhetorical questions like "Who's a pretty baby?" I make pop and squeak noises with my face and change song lyrics to include my little one's name. It's completely involuntary.
Linguistically, I've turned into a complete dork. What's even worse is that I'm actually loving it. There is absolutely no need to put on a show for my daughter. She couldn't care less if I lose my composure, or if I refuse to act my age. She's given me leave to be a complete idiot, and instead of being demeaning, it's a relief. She and I will both have plenty of time to stumble over big words and fancy imagery later on.
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