Hey. Grunty McGruntster. ENOUGH ALREADY.

Dear @#$%#! Baby.

I’ve come to terms with you not talking yet. At fifteen months, give or take, I understand that it’s still totes mcgotes normal that you are not using words. You make cute sounds some mornings, you yell at things outside and will toddle around the basement talking to yourself.

So we’re good with that. The cute noises are A-OK.


That guttural, phlegmmy, closed mouth, nonstop, frustrated grunt has got to beat even the most annoying sound in the world. I would rather you scream, screech, run your nails down a chalkboard, sound like a jackhammer, make a sound like dial-up internet circa 1996, ANYTHING.

You’ve been making the sound for a long time. But then you stopped. And I was happy. BUT THEN YOU STARTED BACK UP AGAIN, WTF.

You would be kicked out of Planet Fitness.

I get that you get frustrated and you don’t know how to tell me what you want and you don’t really understand what you’re doing or why your doing it and maybe you like the feel of it in your throat. I get that. I also don’t care. I also can’t shake the feeling, regardless of how crazy it is, that the grunting is a sign of the many hypochondriac things I think are wrong with you. So even though I know I’m wrong, your obnoxious sound makes me think you’re broken. That doesn’t help the situation. At all.

There’s a reason we learned to talk. If we all grunted at each other the way you do, we’d punch everyone in the face. That’s no way to run a society.


At the very least, do it AFTER I’ve had my coffee. Your grunts first thing in the morning could be an alarm clock on Guantanamo.