(I'm sorry if this is sloppy or short but I'm typing with socks on my hands because my hands are frozen and I can't find my gloves. But they aren't just any socks. they are pink and silver and sparkly striped knee highs belonging to Bre. She is slightly amused and just a little bit embarrassed that I am her mother.)
Hurricane calls Bre 'Banna'. Not just 'Banna' but he says it so that it comes out as a question. "Bah-nuh? Hold still while I hit you with my Weeble." or "Bah-nuh? Quick, slip me some M&M's. Dad isn't looking!"
In fact, most of his names come out as a question.
He says daddy, of course. Paw-paw for grandpa in this long drawn out way.
For grandma it's Bamma with what can only be described as a very southern accent. It's a wonder to me how a child who has never been to Texas, can mimic that slow drawl.
But my very favorite, and most inexplicable, is what he calls me.
I am not mama. No mommy, mother, ma, hey lady.
I am The Mamas.
No matter where we are or what we are doing, he calls me The Mamas. Occasionally, simply Mamas, but always plural, as though there are so very many of me and that is the only way he can explain all of the things that he sees me do during the day.
"The Mamas? Tickle?"
"The Mamas? We go bye-bye?"
"The Mamas? M&M's?"
I know that eventually, like his sister, I will simply become 'Mom'. Usually accompanied by an eye-roll and sigh. For now, it feels so good to be so many things to this little man.