Mommy, Mommy

Robin has made the leap from babbling “mama” to saying “Mommy” quite clearly when he wants my attention. I was delighted by this for about half a day, until it became clear that he doesn’t just say Mommy. He also cries it, wails it, sobs it: Moooommmeeee, Moooommmeee, with a quaver in his voice and tears shining in his sweet face. It’s a devastating weapon he’s developed, the nuclear option of the toddler world, and he unleashes it at the very slightest provocation. Are the fig bars gone? Moooommmeee, Moooommmeee, as if his little heart were breaking. Have I refused to put in a movie for him? Moooommmeee, Moooommmeee. Is he getting sleepy? Does he want a bath? Will the kitty not let him pet her? Moooommmeee!

He’s a little bit sick—I am, too: it’s just a runny nose and a sore throat. I fear it’s making us both whiny.

Of course just as I decide I’m going to barricade myself in the bedroom he goes and does something weird and cute, like licking me, which is apparently the new game du jour. When I go “ewww!” he laughs like a fiend. And I’m willing to be licked for hours if it means I don’t have listen to the piteous wail of Moooommmeee.

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