The amount of times I refer to myself as mummy throughout the day is increasing. Truth is I can’t stop myself: Come with mummy, Mummy’s here (for those little pangs of separation anxiety), Here’s mummy! (as part of my new role as family clown to get a beautiful laugh), Mummy is getting food ready, Mummy will get it, Let mummy dress you and a very long etcetera. It’s the never ending mummylary, a vocabulary restricted to the word “mummy”.
I use the daddy word a lot too. I remember that, having lunch at a restaurant with my husband while I was pregnant, we heard a mum call her husband daddy, even if she wasn’t talking to the children, she was speaking directly to him. My husband turned round to me and told me in no uncertain terms: “Never do that!”. I do though and then remember that moment and think to myself “Oh no!”.
I love my new job title, in fact I fought for it, but I mustn’t proclaim it quite so much. I remain me and this “me” has a lot of components that were there for over 36 years and being a mummy is just one more part, a huge part, of my persona. I need to remember that it has added to who I am, it hasn’t taken it away. The feistiness lives on.
In fact, I’m not even mummy, I’m mami and daddy wants to be papi.
My name is actually María, just in case you’re wondering.0