MY 3-YEAR-OLD SON IS A TALKER.

His words are like a dialogue balloon in a comic strip that expands until it fills the whole strip, squashing the other characters. On rare occasions when my husband and I are actually attempting to talk to each other, Colin will interject with: “Excuse me. What are you talking about?” He says this, not because he’s actually interested in knowing the answer, but because he’s been told he needs to say “excuse me” before interrupting.

After we answer, he replies, “Oh,” and immediately segues into a longwinded story that no one’s really interested in. It usually involves Thomas the Train or Lightning McQueen and whatever adventures they’ve gotten up to in our living room.

I’m with Colin most of the time, so you wouldn’t think he’d have anything to say to me that I haven’t already seen him do or heard him say before. And you would be right.

In fact, sometimes I am in the room with him when an event occurs, and Colin will still relate the event to me as if it is an original story. Here’s an example:

Daddy: Colin, which do you like better, a Ferrari or a Porsche? (This is a frequent topic of conversation at our house.)

Colin: I like both of them!

Daddy: My favorite is a Porsche.

Colin, turning to me, even though I’ve been sitting there the whole time: Mommy, Daddy asked me which do I like better, a Ferrari or a Porsche. I said both of them. Daddy said he likes the Porsche best.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad Colin is so articulate. The other day he used “otherwise” correctly in a sentence. The English teacher in me loved that he slipped a transition word into casual conversation.

I just didn’t realize how much quiet time I needed in a day to hang on to my sanity. I used to be a classroom teacher. I should be used to constant noise. Yet, somehow, Colin singlehandedly out-talks my former load of 200 students.

Annabelle, my 9-month-old, doesn’t yet talk. Or move much. I now see these as virtues.

The other day, my mother said she’d read that babies need to hear 10,000 words before the age of 1. She advised me to talk to Annabelle as much as possible. But I can’t say I’m worried. Colin hits that many words every day before lunch.

Ironically, while my toddler’s vocabulary expands, mine decreases. Suddenly there are a number of words I’m no longer allowed to say — including words that formerly seemed innocent. For instance, I’m not supposed to say “hate” any more. I get it. It doesn’t sound good when little kids say that. But I’m not a Care Bear. I can’t love everything. When someone cuts me off in traffic, I want to say, “I hate that!” Instead, I have to say something lame, like, “I have great antipathy for that!” It’s just not as satisfying.

I’m also not allowed to say “stupid.” You know that guy who cut me off? I have to say, “That man is so silly!” Or when I pack the kids in the car and drive to Raley’s, only to find I’ve forgotten my shopping list, I’m supposed to calmly remark, “Mommy’s so silly!” (That’s another thing. Why do I have to talk about myself in the third person?)

There is another class of words, obviously, that I’m not supposed to say anymore. Judging by how infrequently I hear them dropped by my parents, I worry I won’t be allowed to say them for the rest of my life. If only I’d known, I would have let them fly recklessly from my mouth just because I could.

Colin might as well talk freely, then, since I am now censored. But I worry a little for my baby Annabelle. Will there be enough talking space for her when she starts speaking? It doesn’t seem possible. Other parents, with a chuckle, have assured me that there will be.

Actually, it’s usually less of a chuckle and more of a maniacal cackle. I don’t want to know what that means.

Kirstin Odegaard runs the Benicia Tutoring Center. Read and comment on her writings at www.kodegaard.com.