Dada? No, Mama.

Sean: Dada.  Dada.  Dada!  Dada!

 

Me: Oh, baby.  Dada isn’t here right now.  But Mama is!

 

Sean: (Grabs my hand to lead me to what he wants) Dada.

 

Me: No, Mama.  I’m Mama.

 

Sean: Dada?

 

Me: Mmmaaaaammmaa.

 

Sean: Dada!

 

Ok.  Listen, kid.  You’re adorable.  If your father was here, this would melt his heart.  Heck, it’s even pulling on my heart strings.  But I WILL NOT ANSWER TO DADA.  I can’t.  I can try, but it won’t work.  You see, it’s like this.  I carried you for nine, almost ten, months.  You were heavy.  I had horrible morning sickness and acid reflux.  You grew until I had no room in me.  Then after you were born, I was the one who fed you, changed you, rocked you, sang to you, read to you, bathed you.  Not dada, mama.  You ate tons.  I sacrificed hours to feed you.  When you were sick, that was me taking care of you.  Who held you and cooed to you as you got stitches?  Mama, not dada.  Who held you when you got shots?  Mama, not dada.  Who cooks you your favorite meals?  Mama, not dada.  Who buys all the gifts, wakes up with you early in the morning, repeatedly reties the shoes your dada picked out?  Mama.  It’s not like we even look the same.  I’m taller, thinner, and have a better pair of breasts.

 

Sean: Dada.

 

Me: Mama.

 

Sean: Dada.

 

Me: Mama.

 

Sean: Dada.

 

Me: Mama.

 

Sean: Dada.

 

Me: Mama.

 

Sean: Dada.

 

Me: Mama.

 

Sean: Mama!

 

Me: (hugging him tight) Good job!  Now let’s get you a cookie.

 

 

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