Rubber Ducky

I was just saying to Nick last night that ducks have become central figures in my life as of late. For some reason, ducks are associated with babies.

Genny’s Graco swing is blue with yellow ducks, as was her favorite (okay, my favorite) pair of flannel jammies that no longer fit. There’s The Fuzzy Duckling book in the regular version and in the appended and waterproofed bath copy. There are the three sizes of rubber ducky tub toys. There are all the ducks in the Baby Einstein videos. And of course, there are all the little yellow duckies that waddle their fuzzy little butts through my dreams at night.

And what’s with the adding of “ie”-sound to the end of so many nouns? Why must I say yellow duckies? Or cute doggy? Or worst of all—poopy and poopsies? That “ie”-sound certainly does not make the offending subject any sweeter.

Words must rhyme, too. It’s cutie patootie. It’s jelly belly. It’s lunch munch. I accidentally called Genevieve Missy Pissy this morning. You never know what rhyme is going to pop out of your mouth, which can be dangerous with so many ducks lying about the house.

Nick and I even call each other Mom and Dad when Genny’s not around. We use cute sing-songy voices when they aren’t called for at all. I graduated valedictorian from my college for Goodness sakes. What has happened to me? Where has my brain gone? And will it show back up again when it’s time for me to start graduate school in the fall, or will I be introducing myself as Sheilie Wheelie?