The title of this post references the fact that my son has started to address me by my first name. I'm trying to not be pissed about it. It evolved naturally. Henry mimics EVERYTHING his dad does. He wants me when he's sick or hungry or tired, but the line has been drawn and Dad is on the fun side. I'm not terribly surprised. I have worrywart tendencies and am decidedly risk-averse. Ben flew in planes with his Navy pilot grandfather when he was a toddler-once the door on Ben's side even fell open. Apparently his grandfather very calmly reached across him and shut it, mid-air. Beat that, Sully!
So Ben walks around yelling for me with his Mini-Ben following closely, so I hear "MEGAN! MEGAN!" followed by "MENAN! MENAN!" (Gs are hard, apparently.). It's a bit much to explain to a 22 month old, and the other alternative is having Ben call me Mommy, and I won't go into all the reasons that I say NO THANK YOU to that option.
So Menan I am. For now.
Easter is approaching, and that meant the big party at day care and the eggs we have to put together, and the cupcakes I had to make because I decided to not be lazy and just sign up to bring paper plates, which is what I normally do. I'd love to be one of those crafty people who makes art and can whip up dinner from scratch based on greens found in the yard and a rabbit that was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but alas, I am not. I did pull together some nice cupcakes with strawberries on top. Ben commented that "this is some Martha Stewart shit" as he ate several. I gave one to my darling child, who decided to reward my hard work by throwing the cupcake on the ground and then spitting on it.
I suppose this is preparing me for his teen years.
So we'll be off to catch up with both sets of grandparents, and to let them stuff candy in this kid til he's up til all hours singing in his crib and closer to diabetes than we'd like him to be, but hey, isn't that what Jesus would have wanted?
Don't ask me. Lapsed Catholic.