If my kid could trademark a phrase, it would be “oh, no!” It’s his “you got it, dude,” his “book ‘em, Danno,” his “did I do that?”
I understand he got it from somewhere, that he must have heard me say it and repeated it from there, but it has become a cycle that feeds into itself. As parents, we play the game of parrot. We get our kids to repeat after us to learn new words and we repeat after our kids to reinforce those words.
Through this game, it has gotten to the point that I am fairly certain “oh, no” would be my response regardless of the situation. Baby spit-up? Oh, no. Rear-end a car in the parking lot? Oh, no. Chop off a finger while slicing your millionth cheese quesadilla? Oh, no. Fall down a manhole? OH NOOOoooooo.
Then there are the times he says it with the inflection and volume of Mrs. Doubtfire’s “heeelllooooooo.” I imagine his little face popping up over the top of the refrigerator door covered in whipped cream and I try desperately to contain myself. But the appearance of amusement, no matter how faint, sends him into a fury knocking things over, bumping into walls, and dropping things just to entertain.
So here we are. A family slowly devolving into one single two word phrase. Maybe I will be frizzy haired, in a straight jacket, and huddled in a corner of a room with blank white walls uttering “oh no” quietly to myself, but as of this moment, I’m just thankful it wasn’t “oh, shit.”