What's in a Name?

Recently, Sophia graduated from saying “mama” to “mommy.” This change is interesting to me because I did nothing that I know of to foster it. As she became able to put two unlike syllables together, “mommy” became my preferred title. She must have picked it up from the ether, which is impressive because no one else calls me mommy. If she saw other children calling their mothers’ “mommy,” she had to have understood the gestalt of momness and generalized the word to me.

I’ve always liked the sound of “mommy” over “mama.” “Mama” makes me think of rigid rubber dolls with staring eyes and creepy monotone voices—or that short old lady who carped on her deadbeat son Francis in the comics. But not me. That is, until Sophia came along. And then, mama, her first word, was perhaps the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

Now I mourn it’s disappearance as I do all things associated with her babyhood. Mommies hold their little girls' hand as they cross the street; mamas push carriages. Mommies make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and mac n’ cheese; mamas mash up bananas and avocados. Mommies empty potties; mama change diapers. How is it that I am already a mommy?

But before I had any time to adapt to my new title, Sophia called me a name that really took me aback.

When Daddy pointed to me one morning and said, “Who’s that?” Sophia replied, nonchalantly, “Mee-sa.” Kevin was charmed and made her repeat it over and over again. I was not amused.

Of late, Sophia has been interested in knowing everyone’s name. Mornings, I hear her reciting them to herself as she waits for me to retrieve her from her crib: “An-drew. AN-drew. Aa-bee. LEE-ah. EL-la. Er-i-KA. Pa-pa.” Apparently, she has discovered my true identity.

I used to be one of those people who thought it was cool when kids called their parents by their first names. I thought it signifed respect and equity. I wanted to do it with my parents, ("Hi Judi! What's up Lenny?") but I could never actually make myself say it. Now, hearing my name on my daughter’s lips, I instantly changed my mind. Not cool.

I am Melissa to everyone. But there is only one person in this world who can call me mama. Or mommy. Or mom.

To me, this is sacred.

Gotta Get Down

Among Sophia’s first words are: mama, dada (in that order), maw (as in “give me more”), bo (as in “read to me”), gain (as in “read it again”), moon (as in “Goodnight Moon”), mi (as in “yes, milk sounds like a fine idea”) and DOWWWNNNN (as in, “I want to go downstairs; I want to get down from my highchair; I want to get down from my car seat; I want to get down on the floor; etc.”)

This list deviates somewhat from that of the “Top 10 First Words” put out by the MacArthur Foundation. In the spirit of New Years, lets's count them down:

10. Dog (no dogs in my house)
9. YumYum (no sugar allowed…at least not for babies)
8. Bottle (nix on the bottle too)
7. Grr (bears fear me—and how does this count as a first word? When was the last time you heard grr come up in a conversation?)
6. Uhoh (granted, this is part of her repertoire—totally my fault; I love it when babies say it)
5. Hi (yes, but only when prompted)
4. Bye (if you put your coat on, or if she’s listening to “Birdie Bye Bye" on her fridge radio)
3. BaaBaa (along with, a cow says “moo,” a sheep says “baa,” three singing pigs say “lalala.”)
2. Mama (number one)
1. Dada (number two)

So if first words are all about relevancy, not frequency (which research says they are), then Kevin and I aren’t simply asking Sophie if she wants “to get down” over and over again (if anything, we’re avoiding the word at all costs)—emblematic of her personality, Sophie simply wants to get down. She’s a girl with places to go…few of which are places I want her to be.

Does this irk me?

Not in the least. From the moment she could roll over, like a teen with her first set of wheels, she was off. Whether she’s got a destination or she’s just cruising because she can, Sophia is on the move. And really, who am I to stop her?

Dada-ism

Say “mama.”

THffftttttt

Say “mamama”

AHHHHHKKKKKK

Say “mama”

Dada

It’s just not fair that it’s easier for you to say dada than mama. I mean, I’m fine with you saying it. I’m THRILLED that you say it, but can’t I get a little recognition too? Come on, Sophie, throw me a bone.

Dadadadada

Okay. Okay. You don’t have to rub it in.


Actually, it’s not that she never says mama. She does. It’s always in a desperate moment, just before she starts hyperventilating, as she comes lunging at me, her eyes trained on the area just below my neck, welling, “Mamamama!.” Or if she’s pulled herself up against the ottoman, is reaching for my laptop, and suddenly she’s down, headfirst, “Mamamama!” I don’t think she yet associates the word with me. I think it’s much more reflexive and visceral than that. Mamamama stands for comfort.

Dadaddada means fun. It’s her curiosity as she picks through the laundry basket and sucks on my dirty sweatpants. It’s her wonder as she pulls up to the dishwasher and rolls the bottom rack back and forth. It’s her joy as she slams the plush head on the floor. It’s her anticipation as she makes her way across my bed to a pile of books.

In many cultures, “mother” is some variation on “mama” and “father” is a permutation of “dada.” It is a chicken or egg argument, but it seems to me that we have shaped these infant utterances in accordance with our culturally-sanctioned gender-defined roles.

Why can’t I be dada?