Momnesia

Mother Changes Name to Avoid Children

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" Emmie is chanting my name, trying to get my attention. Every time I turn my eyes to something besides her, she starts up again. It is Attention Deficit Day at the Hudson household, and my job is to make sure she has an Attention Surplus before she goes to bed. But I'm checking my e-mail for client responses, because they often work odd hours and its my job to help them.

"Mama! Mama!" she continues.
"Yes, darling?" I ask, gritting my teeth a little. I managed to open one e-mail and read the subject line. My mother used to joke that she had changed her name, but that would just intrigue us into guessing her new name for hours. "Rumpelstiltskin" was a favorite, but I always guessed "Chewbacca." One day, I reasoned, it would be the right one. But it never was.

"Mama, can I play peeyooter when you done?" Emmie asks, pointing at the screen with a spoon dripping frozen peach puree on the floor. Nice.

"We'll see," I say, because saying "no" to her garners the same reaction as setting one of her dolls on fire.

"Mama! Mama! Mama!" she continues.
"Yes, sweetie?" I ask, a little exasperated. Got through the first paragraph.

"Can I play peeyooter when you done?" she asks again, ending the request with a charming - and deliberate - little grin. I chuckle. She flashes the grin again: "Can I play peeyooter?"

"Maybe, sweetie-pie. But it's getting late," I answer, and turn back to my e-mail screen.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" she calls, loudly, from two feet behind me.
"YES, darling, what IS it?" I whip my head around to look at her again. I haven't even through one e-mail in ten minutes.

"I wanna play peeyooter!" she says, with a little whine tinging the request.
"Doodle, please don't whine. And if Mommy can't get through her e-mails, you'll never get to use the peeyooter," I reason. "So you have to be patient."

"oooOOOHHHooo, I know what's the problem is," she says.

"Really? Is it you?" I ask, giggling to myself.
"No! No, is I gotta finish my peaches, and DEN I can play peeyooter," she says, smiling brightly, palms up, as if to say, "You see? I figured it out on my own."

I guffaw into the keyboard.

"Honey, just let mommy finish her e-mail and then it's all yours," I concede, and turn back to the screen.

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!" she calls, waving her hand in the air like an over-eager classroom achiever.
"Yes. What. Is. It. Now?" I grit.
"I gotta check MY e-mail TOO!" she grins.

I give up.