Paella
We play this game, her and I, where I point to her chest and say, "Darby," then to my chest and say, "Mama." She laughs and says brightly, "DaDa!" Our new variation is I point to myself and say, "Is my name Gramma?" She shakes her head. "Is my name Trin Dog?" She laughs. "Is my name Daddy?" She pauses, but shakes her head. "Is my name Mama?" She smiles right into my eyes, because she knows, then shouts triumphantly, "DaDa!!!!"
She's 14 months old and I've never heard my baby call me mama. One of my friends mentioned that she loves hearing her little man call her mama and it just hurt a little bit. Why? Why does it hurt? Having my daughter not say my name does not lessen her love for me. She knows who I am whether she names me or not. But it still hurts.
We read Karen Katz's board book "Mommy Hugs" a lot. It counts through a mother and baby's day with the types of hugs: wake up hugs, splishy splashy bath time hugs, and "You said Mama! First Word Hugs!" Darby's first word was poop. She can also say dog, ball, bow, hat, boat, eat, please, here, that, the infamous DaDa and some others I'm forgetting. She can imitate animal sounds and has sign language for more, all done, frog and dog. I've heard her jibber jabber mummmm mummm maaa maaaa. But she won't look me in the eyes and call me my name.
We went out with some friends last night for a wonderful dinner and Christmas parade. As we were paying our bill and bundling up in coats to leave, Miss D decided it was a great time to stretch her lungs out and yell at the top of her lungs repeatedly. The restaurant was a little too nice to let my child just go for it, (as demonstrated by the manager walking over to ask how our dinner was and letting us know our children 'did pretty well, better than expected, like 6 or 7 on a scale of 1 to 10,' um, what the hell does that mean?). Nothing I said or did was detouring my child from her screaming. Right as we were walking out, I changed tactics and asked her to count with me. This sudden slapping of the forehead, thinking to myself, 'duh, distract her.' felt a lot like being up in the middle of the night with a screaming newborn when nothing is working and a hour into it you remember you didn't burp her. It was my first time feeling like I was, 'that parent,' you know, the kind her 'lets' her kid yell and ruin other people's dinner? Lord.
Sometimes being a mom doesn't feel good. Sometimes I feel like an utter failure. Even though I know my child is incredibly loving and is a sweet tempered, good listener about 90% of the time, (and I don't think you can ask for more unless you're raising a robot.), I sometimes wonder if it's good enough and if I'm doing enough. When my girlfriends confide the same feelings, I tell them that just the fact that they worry, shows what good parents they are. But it's much harder to give myself the same advice.
But at the end of every day, when Darby is warmly bundled in her jammies and is curled against my chest as we rock, rock in her dark room, I know it's okay. We're okay. We made it through another day together. She grabs my nose, then offers me a suck on her binky. She lays her head back down on my shoulder and slowly lets herself melt. I cradle my big baby and lay her gently into her crib, tucking her stuffed pig into the crook of her waiting arm. She looks up at me and I whisper the blessing I've been saying over her since birth, "God bless you, you are so loved." And we're okay. We'll start again in the morning.
She's 14 months old and I've never heard my baby call me mama. One of my friends mentioned that she loves hearing her little man call her mama and it just hurt a little bit. Why? Why does it hurt? Having my daughter not say my name does not lessen her love for me. She knows who I am whether she names me or not. But it still hurts.
We read Karen Katz's board book "Mommy Hugs" a lot. It counts through a mother and baby's day with the types of hugs: wake up hugs, splishy splashy bath time hugs, and "You said Mama! First Word Hugs!" Darby's first word was poop. She can also say dog, ball, bow, hat, boat, eat, please, here, that, the infamous DaDa and some others I'm forgetting. She can imitate animal sounds and has sign language for more, all done, frog and dog. I've heard her jibber jabber mummmm mummm maaa maaaa. But she won't look me in the eyes and call me my name.
We went out with some friends last night for a wonderful dinner and Christmas parade. As we were paying our bill and bundling up in coats to leave, Miss D decided it was a great time to stretch her lungs out and yell at the top of her lungs repeatedly. The restaurant was a little too nice to let my child just go for it, (as demonstrated by the manager walking over to ask how our dinner was and letting us know our children 'did pretty well, better than expected, like 6 or 7 on a scale of 1 to 10,' um, what the hell does that mean?). Nothing I said or did was detouring my child from her screaming. Right as we were walking out, I changed tactics and asked her to count with me. This sudden slapping of the forehead, thinking to myself, 'duh, distract her.' felt a lot like being up in the middle of the night with a screaming newborn when nothing is working and a hour into it you remember you didn't burp her. It was my first time feeling like I was, 'that parent,' you know, the kind her 'lets' her kid yell and ruin other people's dinner? Lord.
Sometimes being a mom doesn't feel good. Sometimes I feel like an utter failure. Even though I know my child is incredibly loving and is a sweet tempered, good listener about 90% of the time, (and I don't think you can ask for more unless you're raising a robot.), I sometimes wonder if it's good enough and if I'm doing enough. When my girlfriends confide the same feelings, I tell them that just the fact that they worry, shows what good parents they are. But it's much harder to give myself the same advice.
But at the end of every day, when Darby is warmly bundled in her jammies and is curled against my chest as we rock, rock in her dark room, I know it's okay. We're okay. We made it through another day together. She grabs my nose, then offers me a suck on her binky. She lays her head back down on my shoulder and slowly lets herself melt. I cradle my big baby and lay her gently into her crib, tucking her stuffed pig into the crook of her waiting arm. She looks up at me and I whisper the blessing I've been saying over her since birth, "God bless you, you are so loved." And we're okay. We'll start again in the morning.
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