Lingerie Model

                                                                         

Over breakfast this morning, my toddler daughter Katherine pointed to a picture in the newspaper of a beautiful model and said  “Ma-Ma?”

     My heart soared.  Oh boy! I thought.   To think I really looked like that to her.  I praised her profusely.

     “Oh yes, darling,” I cooed, ignoring the nagging feeling that my sin of lying would eventually find me out.  “That’s Ma-Ma, all right!  You are Ma-Ma’s smart, smart girl!”

     Then she pointed at the other page.  It was a picture of a rock.  “Ma-Ma?” she asked expectantly, beaming up at me.

     Ah, the highs and lows of motherhood.  Just like an athlete, from the ecstasy of victory to the agony of defeat in the blink of an eye.

     For over a year, I had waited to hear my magical name from either one of my twins.  After all, I had listened to months and months of pleas and cries for Da-Da.  Especially at 3 o’clock in the morning when Da-Da was sound asleep and I was walking the floors with one of them, they’d look at me and say “DaDa?” 

     “No”, I would mutter.  “Da-Da’s not here.  Da-Da’s in the wonderful land of Sleepyville.  I am Ma-Ma.”

     

       A sweet smile of understanding from them.  “Da-Da?”  they’d say again, looking right at me.

       No use, I thought.  They’ll never say it.

       Still, I endured month after month of hearing “Da-Da,” feeling increasing frustration.  After all, who could blame me for wanting to hear my name?  After feeding, dressing, changing, bathing, playing, carrying (times two) all this time, I wanted validation.  I wanted recognition.  My insecurity ran wild.

    But as the days passed, I noticed my daughter was starting to get the right idea. She was trying to say Ma-Ma.  (Her brother Christopher was still silent on the issue.)

   As Katherine’s mastery of my name grew, I made up my mind; she was going to get a BMW and Christopher was in line for a used Yugo.

     Now suddenly, today, the big day was here; not only was she saying my name, but now she was putting a face with it too!  And wow!  What a face (and body)!  That new Beemer was practically hers.

     Then, a mere second later, she thought I looked like a rock.  I went from looking like Christy Brinkley to Yassar Arafat in an instant.

      Bitterly disappointed, I glanced expectantly over at my son and showed him the picture of the model. 

     He would look better in a BWM anyway.

       

                                           439 words

                         Copyright  Ó  2004  Lynn Floyd Wright