Finn called me Mommy today. He stood at the top of the steps and clearly bellowed, “Mommy!” Devastated, I peered up at him as he repeated, “Mommy”. It was the first (and the second) time he ever called me anything, but Mama. I’ve become desperately attached to his little “Mama” uttered in a petite French accent. Since he is neither petite or French, it is super cute.
When pressed by excessive begging on my part, he reverts to Mama but the damage has been done. He is growing up and there is simply nothing that I can do about it.
When Dada got home, he promised us ice cream if we ate a good dinner which was the least he could do considering that he is still Dada. We strolled into town under the just blooming Bradford pears. Families were out in force taking advantage of the first really warm day by making their way to What’s the Scoop (aka The Scoop). I sprung Finn from his seat and he pressed his face against the case saying “Green One” to the Mint Chip and then “That One” to the swirly Superman Vanilla, but then he spotted …. the cone. I looked at John and he shrugged. I ordered a Baby Soft Vanilla in the flat bottom cake cone.
Finn grasped the cone like a pro and held it straight up. He took a cautiously lick and a WIDE grin spread across his sweet face. I deposited him on a metal chair in front of the Scoop figuring it would only be a second or two before he was racing up and down the sidewalk with the other kids without jackets. To our surprise, he sat placidly engrossed in his cone with a sticky white mustache. Armed with a fistful of napkins, I hovered about to no avail. He didn’t need them. He managed the cone brilliantly and even …. SHARED. Shocking, I know.
Gone are the delicious little rolls in the wrist and the roundess of his belly is dwindling, but as I watched my big boy in his 3T jeans and size 7 sneakers almost dangling over the edge of the metal chair, I realized something. I am happy he is growing up and becoming a fine lad, but I still want him to call me Mama.