This morning Chloë and I read one of her books, "Wait for Me!", which involves a monkey, a parrot, and a snake generally making life miserable for an elephant, though not on purpose. On one of the pages Chloë pointed to the monkey and said, "Dada."
Now, to be fair, the picture in question did look a lot like a pale human with brown hair, which Eric is. I giggled, and said, "No, that's a monkey."
We finished the book, and upon closing the cover, Chloë pointed to the monkey on it and said again, "Dada." I laughed again and said, "Dada is not a monkey."
She grinned, and insisted, "Dada!"
"Dada is not a monkey."
"Munky," she insisted. "Dada!"
"Dada is not a monkey! You're the monkey!"
We were both giggling at this point, she repeating "Dada" and "munky," which she hasn't before (monkeys have always been identified as "eee eee"), and totally enjoying the joke. It got slightly less funny when she laughed so much she spit up her breakfast milk all over the both of us, but she's been looking at me, grinning, and saying, "Dada. Mukky," at intervals all day.