My two-year-old son has
started calling me Anna.
Not mummy.
Anna.
And calling would be too
gentle a description.
It’s more of a bellow, and
almost always from a different room.
It’s kind of a bit like
getting bollocked by your own children.
‘ANNNAAAAAAAA!’
I’ll race through, thinking
there has been some kind of major disaster.
And he’ll be sitting there
on the sofa, having found his bottle (which, really he should have grown out of
by now, but I don’t have the energy, will-power or determination to tackle that
one, but that’s another story.)
So, he’s sitting there waving
his empty bottle in the air like a drunk at last orders, chanting, ‘milk. Milk.
Milk.’
Or I’ll put him to bed and
he’ll leave it just enough time to find Corrie on catch-up and pour a large
glass of vin rouge, I’ll sometimes have had the cruel luxury of the first sip
and the opening credits, when there it is again.
‘ANNNAAAAAAAA!’
He shares a bedroom with his
big sister so I run like lightening* to see what’s up before he wakes her.
And it’s normally a request
for a refill of milk, a dropped toy that is almost definitely within his reach
that he wants me to pick up, or a slightly rumpled duvet cover that I have to
straighten.
Now, I don’t want to get a
total monk-on about ‘Annagate’ but basically there are only two people in the
entire world who are qualified to call me mummy, and one of them can’t be
bothered.
That’s annoying.
Also, we already share
different surnames, if he decides to drop the mummy altogether, who’s to say he
will even be identified as my own child to strangers and the authorities?
I knew a girl when I was
about 15 who called her mum, ‘mum’, and her dad by his first name. I thought he
was just an over-familiar family friend who was ALWAYS hanging around for the
first two years of our friendship.**
So, for the love of all
things fair, please can my son called me mummy.
Because that is brilliant
payback for all the less glamorous parts of parenting.
Otherwise I might as well be
wiping any old randomer’s bum.
*Faster than a shuffle,
slower than a stroll.
** Reason 127 why I didn’t
go into investigative journalism.
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It's encouraging to witness this. then we'll really have something
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