When we got Henry, our beagle, he was just a tiny pup with ridiculous ears and an adorable chocolate brown face. I don’t remember exactly when my husband and I started to ‘talk’ for him, but probably it was on the car ride home from picking him up. It would usually go something like, “Hey! Hey, guys! Hey! Guys? Guys? … I love you, guys.” Narrating our dog's thoughts in a dopey voice was just as natural as breathing. And it didn’t stop when our first baby was born.
I remember so little from those groggy first days in the hospital after delivery. But I do remember looking at her scrunchy old man face and analyzing her every tiny noise or facial expression. And then, to the complete amusement of me and my husband, we began narrating her baby thoughts. ...With dumb, high-pitched voices that made her sound like the dorky kid at school. The first time I remember engaging in our weirdness was after I had snuggled and kissed her and she looked back at me with a sort of shocked, slightly scared, but mostly awe-inspired expression. As if to say [here’s where the high-pitched dorky voice starts]: “Hey, lady! Who ARE you?” We cracked ourselves up night after night thinking about her mind trying to process the significance of these huge people she now lived with. We, therefore, became known (to ourselves) as “hey, lady” and “that guy.”
When she actually learned to talk for herself, our weird “Look Who’s Talking” run slowed a bit. Then died. I don’t think we really cared. She was doing plenty of talking for the three of us. And her sense of humor knocked the socks off of any of our material. Her talking started with the beautiful “da.” And so my husband was renamed. It took a few more weeks before I was lucky enough to strut around with my new name: Ama. Ama. I loved that more than Christmas. And it stuck for a while, which was pretty great. Da has morphed as one would suppose, to “Dada” and finally “Daddy.” An appropriate path for his two years of fatherhood. I have had the experience of moving on to “Mama” (really, every bit as great as Ama), and then “Mommy.” Yep. That was nice, the days when my two-year-old daughter still called me Mommy. But about six months ago something terrible happened. Something so dark and despicable. I really… I just don’t even like talking about it. She called me “Mom.” Just “Mom.” Wow. It was like a punch in the gut. I am a mommy. An Ama at my best. But a mom? What the hell?! I’m not in my 30s yet! I don’t have mom hair! I don’t drive a mom car! That was the day I found out my two-year-old is a jerk.
I’m just kidding! She’s wonderful and silly. A bit moody at times, sure. But not a jerk. She’s only two. And I’m only Mom…
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