“Fork you Mommy.” “Fork you sister.” “Fork you Daddy.”
Sounds like any kid anywhere in America anywhere in the world helping set the table for dinner.
Only thing. With this kid, the “o” comes out with more of a “uh.” And well. The “r” isn’t said at all. So, the annunciation ends up rhyming with duck. Only starting with an F.
If he is sitting with a plate food of food and he doesn’t have a fork, he just yells for one. Over and over again. “Fork. Fork. Fork.”
Big Girl has no idea what the word that he is saying means anything other than fork. It’s not a word that we use.
When it started we were constantly trying not to laugh. That was a few weeks ago.
It had almost slipped my mind. When he would talk about his cutlery I would just hear fork. In my head it was just fork.
Then, we were with some extended family, and he asked for a, “fork please?” And the flood gates opened. Opened. For the rest of the meal people couldn’t stop asking about the tool he was using to stab his food.
Over the next few days it continued. My quick witted brother-in-law tried to teach him the phrase. “Give a Fork.”
He didn’t latch on to it. He wouldn’t even repeat it once. Even though it would have been funny, I was pretty happy he didn’t repeat it. That happiness was shattered Saturday morning. Out of nowhere. At church. As he was eating pretzels before the Easter egg hunt, it came back.
“Give a FORK!”
In the middle of the room. Middle school volunteers helping with the Easter Egg hunt were all over the place. He needed a fork to eat pretzles.
I wanted the little space between the linoleum tiles to open and swallow me up.
Thanks Uncle Ben. Seriously. Fork you. Thanks.