It’s one of the many cruelties of motherhood. 

You can love your baby unconditionally. You can grow them. You can literally sustain them with your own body. But at the end of the day, you can only do so much for your child. You can change their nappy or feed them a few spoonfuls of kumara mash. 

But you can’t take their first step for them. You can’t say their first word. 

At first, I thought it was a fluke. There I was, standing over our son and gazing into his eyes as I wrestled his arms out of his pyjama sleeves, when suddenly he blurted it out. 

“DAD.” 

Not Dada. Not bad. Dad. 

If I’m totally honest, it wasn’t totally clear what he meant with his utterance. Was he using my name? Was he calling me? Impressing me? Or just turning shapes over in that sweet, slobbery little mouth. 

“Can you say Dad?” I asked. 

“DAD.” He said. “DAD. DAD. DAD.” 

“He doesn’t know what it means,” said my wife. But then, as if disbelieving her own words, she stood above him and had a crack. 

“Can you say Mumma?” she said. 

“Mumma?” 

“MUUUUMMMMMMMA.” 

He studied her lips. The way they pressed together. The way the air came out her nose. He thought about it. Thought about it. And replied. 

“DAD.” 

Oh, sweet heaven on Earth. 

She can search speech and language development and come up with any physiological explanation she likes. Maybe the “M” sound is a bit more complicated than a D or a B. There’s a reason so many kids say duck or dog as their first word.  

Mava reckons he’s actually at the point where he uses the word to mean the both of us. But of course, I have to disagree. I’m confident our son is so brilliant and bright that he’s approached his linguistic development with purpose and intent, and when it comes to his vocabulary, he’s implemented a strict prioritisation. 

We’re now a few months in. The more our son says “Dad,” the more he’s understood he gets a reaction. He can offer a few sounds. He knows a sheep says ‘Baaa’ and a snake “ssssss,” and he uses “RaRa” to mean his brother. But he still only really has the one proper word. 

Do you want more food? We’ll ask. DAD. 

Look at that! We’ll say... as a beautiful border collie runs past us in the park. DAD. 

And best of all, still, can you say mumma? DAD 

It won’t last forever, obviously. And on balance I’m willing to concede that’s probably a good thing. Kids grow quickly. One minute you’re swaddling them in one of those cute little hooded towels, the next thing they’re queueing up to renew a driver’s license. 

But when the Plunket nurse filled out his book this week, recording his development for all eternity, I was pleased to see her as an independent party settle any household debate once and for all. 

Our son has one word the Plunket book says. He says it often. Three letters. One syllable. 

DAD.