From the moment their little mouths could make one syllable of baby babble, I coaxed it out of them. I encouraged it. I wanted to hear them say that word, that special name I longed to be called - “Mommy”. All peeps and squeaks with any semblance of that magical title were rewarded with smiles and hugs and approval.
The simple truth is this: I started it.
*sigh* Clearly, I didn’t think that through.
Indeed, I got my wish. They say it. Boy, do they say it. Constantly! “Mommy” is now the most abused moniker of my existence. It’s both wonderful and terrible at once.
True, it is awesome to be so invaluable that my name is the one that they call instinctively. Also true is the fact that in their eyes, everything seems to be stamped in big bold letters - URGENT.
Don’t get me wrong. I have three of the most wonderful, silly children I could have ever hoped for, but there are days when I am needed to the point that I want to run away.
Every so often, one of my kids becomes The Unflickable Booger. I can bob and weave and put myself in Time Out to lose whatever glue-child is tailing me, to no avail. The Unflickable Booger will follow me. She waits outside the bathroom door to bombard me with questions about everything from long breasts to the lock-picking finesse Santa uses on homes without chimneys. More often than not, however, The Unflickable Booger’s main calling is that of stool pigeon.
Her insistence on coupling what used to be such a lovely word with “she” is maddening. The “Mommy, she (this)” and “Mommy, she (that)” statements have piled high on this camel’s back. I really don’t need to know which “she” did what to whom and why and for how long, do I? (Okay, sometimes I do.)
I recently made an announcement to my children. I would no longer respond to the name “mommy” if they continued to follow it with the pronoun “she” or asinine requests for the unloading of a particular “she” in the wilderness to be raised by wolves.
My name henceforth will be Tapioca Puddin’.