I made it painfully clear to everyone last night that the title of this blog is merely a colloquialism.

I’ve been thinking about what my first words will be. Yes, plural. To blurt out a single, one-syllable word would be so pedestrian.

I want my first words to mean something. After all, I will be symbolically deflowering my vocal chords.

I’m considering something exotic, even pretentious. A word or words that make normal people feel slightly uncomfortable when they use them. Something like “foie gras” or “obfuscate.”

Perhaps I’ll use a combination of fancy words.

“Dad looked quite obfuscated when I requested a dinner of fine cheese and foie gras.”

If I dropped that out of the blue, it’d be Mom who would need a fresh diaper.

I have a while to think about this, so I’m open to suggestions.

PS – “Colloquialism” is not an option.

Ga ga goo goo, ba ba boo boo. Na na noo noo pee pee.

I can’t believe I just typed that. I feel so gross.

There I was sitting naked in the kitchen sink, my bare ass planted in a stainless steel, mesh colander.

My Dad proceeds to lift me from my ankles like a freshly-harvested chicken, he then grabs the spray attachment from the sink and hoses nature’s matter off my waffled rump as if it were mud on a mountain bike.

As I dangle there, hind side exposed, viewing the world up-side-down through the bay window, a few things are going through my head…

1. That colander is used for cooking.
2. This is not my most dignified moment.
3. Hey, it’s the UPS guy. I wonder if he has something for me.

Then I woke up. It was all a strange dream. But not out of the realm of possibility.

So I’m sitting in my (formerly Will’s) bouncy chair with the dial set to “vibrate my junk.” I’m staring out the window that gives me a view to the front yard and street.

My belly is full, my diaper is relatively clean, and I’m under my favorite 100% cotton blanket. Like 33% of my wardrobe, it too has little duckies on it.

Mom has the music station set to some New Age, John Tesh-type auditory detritus, but other than that, I’m quite content.

I’m staring out at a black bird in the snowy front yard, wondering if it’s the one that sings in the dead of night. All of the sudden, I hear a loud rumbling, scraping sound.

A few seconds later, a big, magical machine with flashing lights and heavy accoutrements goes flying by, flinging snow and ice up and away from the road.

Holy stool sample.

I must obtain one of these machines.

My Dad burps: Mom rolls her eyes and says “Disgusting.”

I burp: Mom’s eyes light up and she says “Thank You! Thank You, little man!”

My Dad flatulates: Mom rolls her eyes, lifts a nostril, gives a more adamant “Disgusting” and ejects Dad from the room.

I flatulate: Mom reacts like she’s hearing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata for the first time.

I shall learn to harness the power of this domestic double standard.

For reasons unknown to me, my digestive system prefers soy-based formula vs. the milk-based variety.

Note to Dad: there’s a significant difference between soy formula and soy sauce.

It’s starting to become clear who the dimmest bulb in the house is.

To me: A pivotal point in our great Nation’s history.

To my Dad: A football game.

The Ducks of Oregon matched against the Beavers of Oregon State. A battle of prey. Amphibious fowl vs. amphibious mammal.

Sounds absolutely enthralling.

It seems I will be forced to watch this event whether I like it or not, so I might as well choose a side. Since I’m so thrilled to be wearing a jumpsuit with ridiculous little duckies all over it, I shall extend my enthusiasm about said ensemble to this sporting event. I’m taking the Ducks. Also, I know my cousin Nathan is a big fan of the Ducks and my grandfather once lived in Eugene, so I shall raise my bottle and will this team to victory.

Then I will crap myself.

Pacifier? Check.

Dancing mits? Check.

Does my hair look dope? Check.

Toss me a couple glow sticks and I’m ready to rave ’til dawn. Word to my Mother.

There’s always one getting shoved in my cry hole. Before your mind spirals further into the gutter Perv van Pervington – I’m talking rubber nipples here.

Some nipples have nectar flowing from them, while others just seem to pacify me.

And speaking of nipples, when will my flesh nipples show up? I’m supposed to have them, right? I can barely see them. And what purpose do they serve?

If that’s true, then I must want to be an amateur wash cloth or tube sock.

My wardrobe consists of three prison-like jumpsuits that zip from my toes up to my neck. One is striped with a muted palette, one is pastel blue with an embroidered automobile (looks to be a vintage VW) over my left pectoral muscle, and the other has little duckies or something trite like that.

I also have a few unitards that act as moisture-wicking base layers.

I realize that I’m not allowed out of the house, but if we had guests over, I would be sorely embarrassed by my absence of taste and decency.

I will ask a parent to please procure some more sophisticated attire. Perhaps something with howling wolves or a tuxedo print.

I’ve seen my Dad wear a really nice Iron Maiden t-shirt that I wouldn’t mind sporting. Although, I’m sure he did not purchase the garment at an actual concert. He’s too much of a poseur.

This is the look I give you when I totally serious. You’ll be saying something like “Hey Human Baby Liam, are you serious?” and I’ll be thinking something like “I’m totally serious. Don’t even question the totality of my seriousness. Seriously. Punk.”

Right now I’m thinking “I like what you’re throwing down, but I’m not 100% certain that it’s legit. I will need some sort of reassurance and/or proof. Perhaps you could cite some credible sources or provide a visual aide to help me concede the legitimacy of your point.”

You can tell by the dramatic lighting. I won’t say what I might be thinking right now, but I assure you, it’s totally sinister.

I just realized that I was born without teeth. Can this be right?