Every day my husband asks me if Margot has said anything, and every day, I offer him a disappointing "no."
She definitely communicates with us, through a series of pitched grunts and squeaks and sign language, all of which we've learned to interpret fairly well.
"Fairly" being the operative word.
She actually does quite well with "b" words - like baby or bub-ble, ball-ball, bro-bro, and boon-boon - which sound almost exactly alike.
"Almost" being the operative word.
There's "done" and "more" - both quite helpful additions to her vocabulary.
And she can say "Dada" particularly well when he walks in the door, or "Mama" for the other bazillion minutes a day, like when she needs absolutely anything, even if it happens to be at 5:30am.
But that's about it.
Now after waiting what seemed like ages for Drew to talk, there's no turning him off now. And he speaks quite well for a 3.5 year old.
And I know that Margot is the third kid, which means can do everything from get her own snacks and bowls (at the ripe young age of 20 months) to rope someone into pushing her around in a baby doll stroller all day long so she doesn't have to make that long walk down our hallway.
Let's just say she knows how to work her two very doting and loquacious siblings.
Yeah, yeah. And us too.
But hey! What's parenting without something to obsess and worry and Google 400 times about?
That was until this weekend when she came up to me and said "pee-pee," which could mean "pee-pee" or a few hundred other things.
Except she was pointing. To her diaperless bottom. And then to the carpet, which had a towel strategically placed on it.
So apparently the girl can talk when she needs to. And is probably smarter than us all.