For months and months, L.A. babbled “Dadda Dadda” over and over. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being a tad jealous at hearing him happily call out for C with no hint of my name on the horizon.
Oh how the tables have turned. At the moment, both C and I are known as Mom in our house, but it’s always said as a question – “Mom?”. Nine times out of ten though, he’s actually talking to C, so after “Mom?” I hear from the other room some version of the following – “I’m not your mom, I’m Dad”, “Not Mom, DAD!”, “Your mother is in the other room, but Dad is here”, and perhaps the funniest of all, a mutter of “I’m not answering until you say Dad” which is then met with a more insistent “Mom?”
One of these days he’ll get it right. In the meantime, it’s nice to hear my name out of that little boy’s mouth, though I wouldn’t mind if he could call Dad in the middle of the night when he isn’t feeling well.