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Broke Wife, Big City
A mom by any
other name
By Aprill Brandon
My baby just said his first sentence.
But let’s completely ignore that for a minute. Yes, yes, I know. What a
milestone! Ooh! Ah! What did he say!? Blah, blah, blah. We’ll get to
all that sentimental crap.
But first, we need to discuss what didn’t come before this milestone.
Because this is important. Because I’m important. Or at least I should
be. I mean, not only did I give the kid LIFE by turning my lady parts
into a luxury apartment but I also fed him using my own body and was
the one to introduce him to ‘90’s hip hop. If it weren’t for me, that
kid would still be jamming to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” like some
kind of doofus.
And what thanks do I get?
In the 20 months my son has been on earth, he has only called me
“Momma” three times.
THREE TIMES.
And I’m pretty sure one of those times he was actually trying to say
“nom-nom” because he was hungry.
Now before you get all “well, some kids take longer than others to
talk,” let me point out he already says “daddy.” And “alright.” And
“hot.” And “balloon.” And “ball.” And something that sounds
suspiciously like “crap.” Hell, the kid can clearly pronounce
“blueberry.”
He even recognizes 11 letters of the alphabet already, including “M,”
“O,” and “A,” meaning that he is technically even able to spell “Momma.”
And yet, nothing. Nada. Zilch. I don’t even get an adorable gibberish
nickname. In fact, the closest thing I get to a personal moniker is a
loud “AH!” whenever I dare to pay attention to something other than
him, such as peeing without his direct supervision.
So when he said “that’s not cheese” at lunch a few days ago in regard
to a poorly made mozzarella stick, my elation was also mixed with a
tinge of bittersweetness.
(Although as first sentences go, “that’s not cheese” is pretty baller.
You gotta love a tiny human who craps his pants but is still
sophisticated enough to appreciate a fine Gouda).
I tried not to take it personally but I couldn’t help feeling like I
had earned that title. I mean, I EARNED IT. Not just because I gave
birth to him but because I’m the one willing to listen to Taylor Swift
on repeat when he’s sick because for some reason the music of Tay-Tay,
as he calls her, (oh yes, that red-lipped lollipop head got a name
before I did) is the only thing that soothes him.
And he is the only person on this planet thus far that gets to call me
“Mom.” So the fact that he refuses to is pretty much the equivalent of
my husband introducing me as “his good buddy.” I just keep picturing
him at the playground, introducing me to the other kids as “I don’t
know if I’d call her my mom, per se. We’re more in the ‘lady that takes
care of me’ relationship stage.”
I had pretty much given up all hope and was just cautiously optimistic
that maybe by the time he went to college, I’d be bumped up to “aunt
who is always telling me I’m too skinny” status. But then, dear reader,
I went to visit my family in Ohio. And it was like a light switch went
on. He suddenly started calling me Momma left and right. (Well,
technically Mom Mom but hell, I’ll take it. I would have accepted Moose
Face or any other “M” sound at that point).
And that’s when I finally got it. I finally understood.
He never called me Momma because he never had to before. I’m always
there. Every morning. Every night. And pretty much every moment
in-between. There’s my big dumb face all up in his personal space. I’m
the primary caretaker. And when I am away, Daddy takes over because we
have no other family members close by. And since Daddy already has a
name, when I return, it’s less “Mommy’s home!” and more “oh good, my
meat suit is back.”
Our relationship is essentially that of Master Blaster from “Mad Max.”
I’m pretty much just an extension of his body. He rides around on me
demanding unreasonable things while I grunt monosyllabic responses and
do it, no questions asked, because I’m too tired to ask why he wants to
carry the Destin cream and a Tupperwear lid into every room of the
house.
But once we got around my large family, where there are roughly 17 moms
in any given room at any given time, it finally dawned on him that we
are, in fact, two separate people and as such, I deserve a name of my
own.
Or some crap like that. Who can follow the logic of toddlers? These are
creatures who see rocks and think “yum, I’m going to try to eat this
and then stuff it in my dirty diaper for safe keeping.”
The point is, I am Mom Mom. Finally. And there’s no one else I’d rather
be.*
*Other than Batman, obviously.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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