Years back, l was invited to stay a few days with two wealthy older women, well educated, old family friends. I had not seen them for many years. I just loved being with those wonderful old ladies, and yet after my second day in their home I was stunned to hear them suddenly begin speaking serious baby talk to each other. Apparently, they’d become comfortable enough with me in their presence that they quite simply slid into it, and after a couple of days, to my amazement I found the rhythm of my own conversation begin to change to the cadence of theirs, sans lisp. And what became even creepier, they started to chat with their dog in baby talk. I was getting the feeling I was sliding into some sort of bizarre Toddler Twilight Zone from which I might never escape.
Their beloved canine was Spanky, or “Thpanky” to them, a scruffy but sweet old dog, and oh how those two adored their Thpanky. Every morning the women would rush into the kitchen to greet their beloved pet, their “widdoo baby boy.” (Thpanky was quite clearly female but I decided that at this point in their lives there was no real reason to educate them about the differences.)
Now Thpanky had a dog door but their widdoo baby doggie didn’t cotton much to being sent outside into inclement weather to attend to her toilette, so one very rainy morning I came down to see Thpanky stuck half way through the dog door. She’d obviously changed her mind when she saw rain so just left her front paws and head on the outside and let ‘er rip on the inside, neatly puddling much of the kitchen floor, then pulling back into the room, ears flat and head lowered in mock shame as she slunk away.
Busted. The ladies saw what had happened and if I can possibly nail the phonetics, these were their shrieked words: “THPANKY!!! OOK WUT OO DID!! Ooo be a berry BAAAAD boy, ooo baaad Thpanky doggie boy. Ust oo WOOK! Thee wut ooo DID?? Ooo made pishy on oo mommy’s kitchen fwoor on her nithe bwand new winoweum. Oh Thpanky, Thpanky Thpanky, oo bad bad widdoo boy!”
Well, old Thpanks was obviously used to all that drama, so with a jaunty wag of her tail, she dropped the guilty act and trotted off.
However, I’ve noticed that baby talk isn’t such an unusual occurrence in my world. And yes, even I lapse into it when a kitten or puppy comes close to me, but not so’s anyone can actually hear.
But one woman I know is a pro at it. She gets a lot of stuff from her long-suffering spouse by easily lapsing into the patois. Her husband is a dear guy, but either a total dolt or a man who’s just decided to pick his battles and give up, a man who has obviously concluded that surrendering is easier than not. So when milady drops into drivel mode and begins to pronounce all her L’s and R’s as W’s, bats her eyes and pushes out her lower lip, he just sighs, pulls out his wallet and hands her the credit cards. The man knows the meaning of “doomed.” My friend then lowers her head, looks up at him adoringly, begins babbling like a three-year-old and within 10 days she’s cruising about in her new Robin’s Egg Blue Mercedes convertible, fully loaded, leather seats, heated of course.
Hey, I should make fun? What am I thinking? I might just twy thith on my thweetums iddoo hubby-wubby to see if I too can get stuff. I weewy, weewy wud wub to hab a bwand new fuwwy woaded Thoobawoo. I weewy wike Gween.
LC Van Savage is a local writer and can be reached at lcvs@comcast.net.
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