Dada as in dad, not as in Dadaism, the art, or rather the anti-art movement. Although hearing it uttered so sweetly from my boys reminds me of an essay I wrote a million moons ago in modern art history class back in my early college days: One day men will suddenly look up with startled eyes from their couches, from behind their newspapers, and whisper "da da". Or something funny like that, I don't remember.
Our main man here--Dada--is a smarty, cooks, builds, fixes, and cracks me up. He's always a hair's breadth away from me at work and I follow him around like a puppy dog at home. I tell people, Jerry and I like to do our own thing--together. The energy, the fire, the beard--I'll take it all. He sprints around like a man on a mission and talks way too loud, often from a soap box. I can really dish out the scary wife routine, but this little man can take it. He changes diapers, reads stories, gets up in the middle of the night, and does everything a mother would do for our boys. That's one interesting aspect of adoption, incidentally: because of the absence of a pregnancy, birth, and usually breast-feeding on the part of the adoptive mother, both mom and dad are potentially equals in terms of the parent-child bond from day 1. Jerry, who shall remain faceless & silent for most of this blog, we love you.
Here comes dada! Please, excuse my irritating shrill throughout this video (and all the cliches in above paragraph!).