If I ever have kids, I refuse to let them speak like babbling idiots. There will be no talk of poo-poo or wee-wees or nummies in my house. Basically, any string of repeated syllables or words that make them sound like some Botox-crazed, sausage-lipped Real Housewife will earn a kid a swift kick in the pants from me - I don't care if we're in the supermarket and the child can't even walk yet. Where's yer binkie now, you moronic infant, you disgrace of my loins?
Instead, my spawn will ask politely if they may use the washroom, and they will address me as either Your Tallness or Queen of the World. Their dad can have them call him whatever he wants, but I would like to humbly suggest El Jefe as one possible option.
I will also hang this picture over the crib, like a badass guardian angel keepin' all the bad dreams away:
And if anybody asks, all judgy-like, why there's a character from Harry Potter on the nursery wall, I'll just say something like, "Well, who the hell dropped your baby off, bitch? The fuckin' stork? Grow up, dude."
Image by Bill Perkins, via Gallery Nucleus.