Junior Jr has just turned 18 months old and appears to be going through a growth spurt. It has many symptoms.

There is a giant molar threatening to push through his gums. He poops into every one of his diapers, non stop. Somehow, in spite of the constant intestinal output, he is also on a prolonged hunger strike, eating only foods he can joyfully scavenge from his brother’s abandoned plate or the floor, but nothing we serve him at his seat at the table. He dropped a nursing session (no complaints there!) And this weekend, his brain went into overdrive. Now when I retrieve him from his crib, he is holding the top rail and jumping, bouncing up and down like we live in a trampoline park. And all weekend long, he hollered my name, ceaselessly.

I try to answer my children every time they call for me, but the last few days have been intense. To be spoken of during all waking hours (and some of the sleeping ones), with no particular reason, in varying degrees of intensity has sounded something like this:

Mamamamamamamamamamama. MA MA MA MA MA. Maaaaaaaaaaa MAAAAAAAA. MAMA!!! Mom mom mom mom mom.

When Junior the Elder would also chime in with his versions of needing my attention, the constant din, though muffled a bit by my intense head cold, made me wonder if I might lose my mind.

The Hubs would like to remind everyone that for several months, when Jr Jr’s earliest vocabulary consisted of several words that were not “mama” – like toothbrush, kitty cat, and the clicking noise he uses for any snack food within pointing range – I bemoaned his brain’s lack of verbal category for my personhood. But in my defense, this was also because for months each time he nursed, he would stagger up half drunk from my lap, smack his lips in ecstasy, milk dripping down his chin, and pronounce his great satisfaction by shouting his happiest word: “DADDY!”

The Hubs is a wonderful man, and responsible for fifty percent of our son’s genetic material, but geez gentlemen, let’s give a little nutritional credit where it is due!

Apparently the lack of mom lauding might continue: this weekend a family friend’s sixteen year old son was interviewed on the radio with his bandmates. They were being encouraged by the radio host to shout out to friends and family. Our friend thanked his father, an inspiring musician, and his grandmother, for her role in his artistic development. Noticeably absent, to me, was any thanks to his mother, who is also a musician, and has driven him to countless music lessons and hosted band practices in her home, not to mention probably cooked every meal he has ever eaten while trying to balance her own career and musical endeavors, plus also they have another child who is equally talented. She is a wonderful woman and I found myself yelling at the radio: “WHAT ABOUT YOUR MOTHER?!?” At which point Junior asked, politely and for the fourth time, why we weren’t yet listening to his Veggie Tales CD and Junior Jr restarted his monologue of “Ma ma ma ma ma ma maaaaaaaaaa.”

What does it mean, then, to know our own names well enough that we don’t need them called out by others? When my sons are teenagers, will I be secure enough in my own self to know that they don’t have to credit me for a lifetime of sacrifices for their wellbeing?

I’m a recovering fame addict. Perhaps you know what I mean. Wouldn’t we all like to be a household name, to be recognized in public, to be the name we hear around us even when not being spoken to directly? We introduce ourselves: “Hello. I’m ME. You’ll definitely want to remember this moment.”

But I think what we actually long to hear, in the midst of life’s noise, is when our name is gently whispered. “Megan: put down your phone and write. Megan: be a little more generous with this person.” The shouting I so often mistake for my naming – “MEGAN! BUY THESE CLOTHES BECAUSE: HAPPINESS!! MEGAN! YOU NEED TO SHINE SO SHIIIIIINY BRIGHT!” – is actually just ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-madness.  Shush that voice; you know your own name.

Post 17 of 40 Daze: A Lenten Writing Practice.