a rose by any other name

March 21, 2011

When I imagined myself as a parent I always thought about myself as a 'mama.' Not a M-O-M, not a 'mother,' and certainly not the dreaded 'mommy.' For some mysterious reason mama always conjured up the image of a young hip person and mommy brought forth the old bedraggled lady in sweat pants with a herd of sticky children attacking everything. I did not want to be the mommy. A mommy has children, not one baby. A mommy cleans up wittle icky boogiekins and smells like baby-powder ass.

We've reinforced my status as 'mama' to the Jude as my preferred moniker. Day in, day out, the mama! Where is the mama! Look, it's the mama! And all those other ridiculous things people say to babies but with mama! added on the end. Jon on the other hand prefers 'dad' over da-da or daddy, and we address him accordingly. It became easy to think we had gotten off scot-free. Seems straightforward, right? He would call me mama. Endearing! Youthful! He's been calling me mama for half a year already. The end.

That is until last week, when I was suddenly hit with truck full of old sweatpants and stale cheerios. Clear as a goddamned bell, over and over, "MOMMY? MOMMY! MOMMMEEEEE!"

Oh parenthood you wily bastard.

'Mommy' coming from a little person is slightly less horrible than I had imagined, however. I think the cuteness of the source helps take some of the edge off. At least I don't gnash my teeth like an angry dog every time I hear it, which is a serious improvement. As long you promise not to tell anyone I think I can get used to it.
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