Tay Tay

It was lunchtime, and my niece was perched in her high chair like the queen of snack time, surveying her kingdom of sippy cups and baby spoons. Today’s royal feast? Mashed peas. Not exactly a five-star meal, but she seemed open to it,

“Here comes the airplane,” guiding the spoon toward her mouth. She took a bite, scrunched her face like she was debating whether to accept or reject this green mush, and finally swallowed. Progress.

Just as I was about to load up another spoonful, a loud HOOOOONK blared from outside. She froze, spoon halfway to her lips, eyes wide. For a second, I thought the sound might have startled her, but then she looked straight at me, her little brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“Car burp,” she announced solemnly, like she had just solved one of life’s great mysteries.

I lost it. I laughed so hard I almost spilled the peas. She looked at me, confused at first, and then grinned like she knew she’d done something funny.

Of course, from that moment on, every car honk became a “car burp” in my world. Even now thirty years later.