“Mom! When is Dad getting here?” I stared at my three year old baby girl with bemusement.
When did she drop the endearingly lisped “Mommy” and “Daddy” and shorten our names to their older counterparts? More importantly, why do I feel old all of a sudden?
Joseph, at six, still calls me Mama and his father Daddy. I anticipated him moving to the more adult parental titles sometime in the next few years. I didn’t anticipate his sister beating him to it by more than three years. I asked her why she was calling us Mum and Dad.
She shrugged her tiny shoulders and said, “Because that’s who you are.”
I’m not sure if this development is the result of too many Phineas and Ferb episodes or something one of her little friends at daycare does. What I am sure of is that I don’t like it. At all.
I’m still having a hard enough time adjusting to the idea of being a mummy. While it’s been six years, there’s an inner part of me that jumps when one of my children calls me mummy and whispers, “They can’t mean you. You’re not old enough to be anyone’s mummy. You can’t even figure out your flat iron! How the heck are you going to figure out parenting.”
When Elizabeth calls me Mum, I instantly age ten years and think I should be baking cookies while wearing pearls and a flirty apron with a roast in the oven and vegetables ready to be put on the stove. I like the vision. Truly. I just don’t feel quite old enough to match it. Maybe when I’m 47.
What do your children call you?