Today I play the martyr card

Jensen and I have had a friendly little running argument. About what Caleb's first word will be. He's remained pretty convinced that Caleb's first word will be, "Jensen."

I explained that, no, his first word will probably be a variant of "Mama."

He was a little disappointed, I think. But he understood. After all, little Caleb has spent almost all of his life directly in my presence. He grew in me for nine months... okay, 37 weeks (however many months that is). He knew the sound of my voice and the rhythm of my heartbeat before he was even born. And then, immediately after he was born (after an absolutely excruciating delivery during which I thought I might actually die, I might add), he was placed on my tummy, where I cuddled him with joy. I've held him for hours on end, carried him until I had to see a doctor for back pain. I stay home with him, happy to sacrifice career ambitions or even time to take a quiet shower. I'm the one who rescues him when he needs it. When he's otherwise inconsolable, I'm the one he wants. I get up in the night with him when he's teething or has a cold or has stood up and can't figure out how to lay back down. And, yes, he's been attached to my boobs for about 75% of his baby life.

So, as much as everybody wants to hear him say their name, I told Jensen it's mostly likely that he'll say mine first. It's only logical.

And so. The sweet baby for whom I have sacrificed mind and body and sleep and rational thought since I became pregnant with him uttered his first precious word last week.

He said, "Dada."

{sigh}