Dear Reader,
My toddler has started calling me Shawna.
I…
I think it’s beautiful thing to be seen by her as Shawna. I love that she has noticed that about me, my personhood. Some adults don’t notice that about me.
She had asked me for a snuggle, then when we were wrapped in blankets to her satisfaction, she took my face in her hands and said it right into my soul: “Shawna.” With a big smile. She didn’t say it to irk me, she said it to tell me, “I see you in there. I know something about who you are.” She said it as if she was saying, “I know this is a special word to you. I know your special word.”
And then she said it all afternoon, slowly turning it into a joke, then a brag, then a cry for help, then an accusation, then a joke again. I think about the way I have used my own mother’s name, the way we all use our mother’s names, how flexible and functional and special of a word it is to offspring the world over, how my mother’s special word shoots out from the palms of my hands, how it sinks heavy in my mouth, how it warms the back of my shoulders, how I’ve used my mother’s special word like a password to unlock the world, forging her signature on school absence notes, using her credit card as a teenager, speaking on her behalf to telemarketers. How my child could use my special word to unlock me, and how she already has. How she will begin to use it in the world, and how she already has.
AND,
Part of me hates it. Part of me does not want her to know she has a person for a mother. Part of me believes (still) that I can keep her from the truth that motherbird is anything more than a soft safe being that floats toward her with milk and silk, who brings smiles and spring and care and fun facts and never has an ugly bad moment or a seedy intention or NEEDS OUTSIDE THE RELATIONSHIP or a lack of answers to really big glaring problems that are above my pay grade—heaven forbid she knows I have a pay grade. Heaven forbid she knows I have a credit card, or a signature, or an age, or an expiration date, or a (I’m whispering now) a middle name. Part of me wants only to be mama, lowercase m, the place where she lived before she was born, the place she goes to return to womb.
AND,
She’s just having a day, learning and being smart. She’s advanced with language, yes, but delayed in other areas. She’s just a kid. She’s a goofball and she knows it. It’s all so unserious. It’s all so unserious. It’s all so unserious. She’s one of my eggs from my belly that popped out and grew and started calling me by my name. It’s hilarious, actually. We’re all just some guy.
Your friend,
Shawna
If she gets to call you Shawna, can I call you mom? ❤️
Love love love love love