So at a recent birthday party...

...this would be the one that involved a fire truck blaring its horn at a crowd of 2-year-olds until half of them were shrieking and inconsolable.

As the truck pulled away for a ride around the block, the last image, one that lingers still in the party-numbed recesses of my brain, is that of a small screaming tot who was forced onto the back of the vehicle with his determined, clench-jawed father. (Uh, dude? Your kid soooo doesn't want to be on that freaking truck. How 'bout shaking off some of the excess testosterone and we'll head over to the non-alcoholic beverage table, chug some apple juice and commiserate over our wussy sons, eh, pardner?)

Geez.

I wandered over to where the other mothers were standing. They were discussing how their 2-year-olds all see a speech therapist, who, apparently makes rounds at E-man's day care.

"Why?" I asked.

"My little girl says "nack" instead of "snack," one mom explained.

"Um. So does E-man."

"Mine says "berry" instead of "very."

"Um. So does Tootie, my 4-year-old."

Call me a bad parent, but I love my children's mispronunciations. They're the last vestiges of babyhood and on the day Tootie quits asking to go play in the "backlard," well, I'll weep over those pesky Y-words.

My favorite -- now vanquished by proper pronunciation, dammit -- was how "TR" became an F-sound.

"Mommy, there's a firef***!"

"Oh, how cute," I cooed to Hubs when it started. "Her first baby cuss words."

But back to speech therapy. For 2-year-olds.

Women. Sisters. Fellow mamas. What have we come to? Can we really not just enjoy the first couple of years when these little slip-ups are the norm? Can we not find humor in them? Must we run out to procure professionals who will deprive us of our kids'cutest verbal fumbles?

What happened to finding a little humor in child-rearing? Personally, I would have throttled anyone who tried to correct Tootie when she said "dumb f***" instead of "dump truck."

I love the way E-man says "Nack." Or "tink yew" for "thank you." Or the way he calls himself "D-man."

My little D-man doesn't need speech therapy. And he can utter all the tinks his little heart desires.

I've seen kids overcorrected so frequently that they have trouble verbalizing their thoughts. Because they know the focus isn't on WHAT they say, but HOW they say it. Sad. So sad.

Lest you think I consider myself above the fray, let me assure you -- I can hang with the party crowd.

Exhibit A:

I present E-man, forced to don a fire hat, just so we could document his shame.



And laugh over it later.