“Want other mummy, not you!” said the two-year-old, pushing me away when I tried to hug him after work this evening. Oh. Not what I was expecting. Maybe I’d misheard. I tried again – reached out for a hug.
“No, you stay there. Want other mummy, not you!” Right so, I hadn’t misheard.
I tried explaining.
“I’m your mummy, you don’t have another mummy!” But he just kept repeating his mantra.
I started to feel uneasy. I thought I was big enough to deal with this if it ever happened – actually, scratch that, I pretty much knew I wouldn’t be able to deal with it, but I aspire to be the kind of parent who can handle it.
He had called our previous childminder “mama” a few times, but he was less than a year old at the time, and though my heart broke a tiny bit, I got over it – he didn’t really know what “mama” meant at the time.
But this was different – he’s two now, and knows exactly who mummy is. Well at least that’s what I thought until tonight.
Working mother guilt kicked in – this was happening because I work, maybe I shouldn’t work; is this a sign that it’s time to hand in my notice? My child not only thinking he has two mothers, but choosing the other one over me?
My resignation letter thoughts were interrupted as a small hand reached up to pull my hair bobbin out and undo my pony-tail. Surveying the familiar hair-down style, he smiled a big smile.
“Now you my mummy!”
Ah. Right so. Back to work as usual tomorrow.