As I make dinner each night, Tiny plays with the doors between the kitchen and the dining room.
I have given him toys.
I have given him books.
He wants to play with the doors.
He swings them back and forth, back and forth.
Until he accidentally closes them.
Then, he’s like a caged animal.
“Mama! Mama!” he yells.
“Who dat? Who dat, Mama?” he yells.
“Who dat,” is what he says when the phone rings or the doorbell rings.
I think he’s using it, in this context, to ask me to look on the other side of the door, see who it is, and open the darn thing up.
So, usually, I wind up finishing what I’m doing, because I know he’s not going anywhere, then going all the way around, through the living room, into the dining room, and sneaking up on him from behind.
I pick him up, move him away from the doors, re-open them, plunk him in the middle of his toys and by the time I’m back at the stove, he’s back at the doors again.
And it’s a safe bet, within the next three minutes, I’ll be responding to the call of “Who dat, Mama?” once again.
