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On Being a Mom

 Very early in life, my daughter began calling me Mom. Or Mama. Or Mommy. Her brother picked up the habit.


The behaviorist who comes to our house finds this troubling. She always issues corrections. Papa. That's Papa.

And I'm reminded of a colleague from an elementary school. This colleague would always demand that children use realistic colors in coloring assignments. Flesh could never be green or hot pink. Hair could never be tangerine-colored.

I found this tyrannical--and I think I did not make much of an effort to disguise the rolling of my eyes.

My daughter seems (at times) to want a world in which everyone is slightly more flexible about gender--and I'm on board. I believe I have persuaded her to wear a dress that advertises prime numbers. A break from the unicorns and princesses. The dress is called "Prime Twins," and it "celebrates" certain pairs. 11 and 13. 41 and 43. Pairs of primes that are separated by exactly one composite number.

When my daughter poses in photos, she already does the strange docile head-tilt that I imagine she learned from Khloe Kardashian. When has she had an opportunity to study Khloe Kardashian?

At least she still believes that men can be moms. I'm secretly pleased whenever she loudly uses this word in a crowded store--and someone gives me a "double take."
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