“Look, Mommy! Look! Jessica! Jessica!”

My son has taken to calling me by my first name if I don’t respond to my parental moniker when he’s called it out two or three times. My ears perk up and I realize I was ignoring my darling little boy for eight seconds. Yesterday I left him asleep with the windows open in the car while I sat on the front porch with my laptop on my knees. I thought I heard a “Mommy,” but wasn’t sure if it was a kid down the street. And then, from the carseat, I heard a clear “Jessica!”

On one hand, I think this is cute and actually rather clever of my little dude. He knows how to work it. But I also don’t love just how effective this is and worry that I’m giving off the appearance of only listening to my son when he speaks to me like a peer.

And yet I’m perfectly content having my son refer to my friends by their first names, unless they object. We sometimes make a half-hearted attempt at putting “Miss” in front of their names, but not religiously. Only a few of the other kids we know have attempted to call me by my name to my face. EJ refers to all my friends by name with me, but I can’t say that I’ve heard him try to get someone’s attention by calling her name the way he does with me and, in the last few days with his dad. “John! Where are you, John?”

Hearing my name coming out of my son’s mouth has made me feel like he is much older, and every time I hear it, it makes me feel somehow different about my relationship to him. It’s kind of like how he asks, “What’s Mommy have?” when simply looking at a wrinkle on my foot. I’m seeing myself as this little toddler sees me and am not sure yet exactly what that means.

See a revised version of this piece on the July 4, 2008 MotherVerse Blog.

I thought it was cute when my 23-month-old son tugged on his male member and said, several times in a row, “Hi, Penis.”

I thought it was funny when he pointed to his father’s post shower noodle and labeled, like he does so many other objects, “Penis.”

I did not think it was as funny, after my shower a few hours later on the same day, when my son stuck his miniature index finger into my scruffy muff and said, “Penis.”

What’s a good feminist to do? I was never the biggest fan of the French feminists but still didn’t want to play into that Freudian trap of being defined by the lack – “No honey, I don’t have one of those things you know and love so well.” But does he really need to learn “vagina” right now?

It’s winter, and I haven’t bathed with him for months. Our body part discussion of late has been focused north of the equator. He points to my sorry chapped nipples and says, “Nurse!” and that’s plenty literal enough for me right now. What good will it do to add the word “breast” to his vocabulary just now? It’s bad enough that he starts to feel me up in public shouting “Wanna nurse you!” I don’t think anyone needs to hear an anatomy lesson on top of that, and I worry where “vagina” would come out if we introduced it in this developmental stage, which seems to be a cross between a coked up Adam in Eden pulling names out of his ass and then looking over his should to see if he’s right and poor simple Tarzan tackling pronouns.

I expect that with my son’s father and I both sporting dark brown triangles in the same spot, he is less likely to get the fact that mine doesn’t have a dangly than he would be if I were appropriately depiliated for the 21^st century. If I’d sported a Brazilian wax like I’m told Katherine Heigl does in Knocked Up (I haven’t been to a movie in two years so I can’t be sure), would the boy notice my folds and say whatever connected up in his brain what he saw? My mind scans his past culinary experiences to recall whether or not he’s ever seen a taco. He might know the color pink; I’m not sure.

Maybe I should have taught him “genitals” instead of penis. The boy clearly identifies the space between legs as penis-territory. Maybe we could have just generalized with the G-word, like saying “firefighter” instead of “fireman,” though so far that has not worked with “snowman.”

If he were a girl, I think I’d be more matter-of-fact from the get-go. I might expect that she could take in the knowledge and deal with the fact and she and her mom shared something that Daddy didn’t. But this little boy is so attached, I’m not sure he can handle the idea that he wasn’t made in my image — or that I don’t match his.

I am surprised to find that, for all my graduate work in women’s studies, it wasn’t until I became the stay-at-home mom of a boy that I seriously, practically considered the formation of gender identity. But the matter is not entirely in my hands, so to speak.

Tonight I overheard my son on the changing table as his father readied him for bed. “Penis?” the boy said in that half-question that expects a big affirmation complete with italics, “Yes that is a penis.” Knowing I was in earshot but ignorant of the bathroom vocabulary session the other day and of this blog post I drafted last night, my husband replied to our son, “Yep. Does Mommy have a penis?”

This post can also be found on my new blog, http://www.crunchychewymama.blogspot.com

I started this blog with the intention of getting down all the reflections and insights I had as a mom that someday would turn into witty, poignant essays. It was supposed to keep me from feeling like my head was full of stuff I couldn’t get out, to be the in-between repository of ideas so they would not just fizzle like Fourth of July sparklers, leaving a trace for a while (“I’m sure I’ll remember that in the morning”) and then just fading, leaving a thin trail of fog that rises up to cloud amorphously around the bug lamps with the tired puffs of other faded inspirations.

So far, my ceiling is still pretty foggy and my blog doesn’t have a whole lot of sparks etched on it. Life keeps happening. Writing does not. But one thing I want to be sure to document about this life is that the little one who started this whole thing is now really finding his voice. And with it he’s finding me.

EJ took a long time to find his “M” sound. Other people had been hearing “mama” from their kids for months, but it was all D’s and B’s around here. And though EJ babbled animatedly early on and was singing on pitch to his CD’s, we didn’t really have any words to speak of until 16 months. We’d been doing baby signs with him for a long time, but the signs didn’t come until the words started forming on his lips (and thank goodness, otherwise how would we have ever known the difference between “peas,” “cheese” and “please”?)

Now, at 19 months, my son is catching up to his peers but still not going to win any verbal development records. What is the most striking to me is the shift in nighttime and post-nap awareness that has come with this new ability to communicate. I asked other moms on an email list a few months ago when he might stop crying when he wakes, and it seems like we’re moving in that direction. Now, he calls, “Mama.” This is lovely, and frightening.

When he wakes at night before I’ve come upstairs to our family bed, the tone is whining, insistent, pleading. I rush to brush my teeth or put on my pajamas (because goodness knows it’s late enough that I should just go to bed). Then we snuggle down and he asks, as though he’s just come up with a great idea for what comes next, “Nurse?”

Today he woke from a nap and called out “Mama. Mama!” more as “Hey, I’m here” notice. When I turned the doorknob, he stepped back and pulled the door open, patted the bed and said firmly, “Nurse.” We were running late for music class, but his insistent tone told me it was not going to be a fun event if I didn’t listen and execute.

Even though I mostly feel comfortable as an attachment parenting mama, I’ve still doubted myself, wondering if he really is a kid who needs to eat frequently or if I’ve helped him create a dependence on nursing to self-soothe. Same with the attachment to me – am I really what he wants or does he need something else? I struggled with leaving my son with babysitters and couldn’t imagine night-weaning without major heartache.

Now he really does seem to get it when I say that I will come back, and he’s pretty clear about what he wants. One night when we were out of town visiting family, he declared – with both clear diction and his fingers to his lips – “eat” just as I was trying to get him to bed. Not wanting to wake my sister’s kids with the crying that ensued when I said “but it’s sleepytime,” I led him into the kitchen, where he ate everything I offered him for about the next half-hour. What novelty to know I’m giving him what he wants! When he tosses in the night, sometimes he wants to nurse (and says so) and other times he just wants a warm body. (As we are officially in fall now, even November, so do I!)

I don’t know what development leap is next or what I’ll think about this all in a few months, but for now, it’s still in the category of amazing to know so clearly that my son is capable of choosing what he wants, and to get a clear message that he wants me and what I can provide.

I think the only time I really played with my son today was in the basement while the house was being cleaned upstairs. It felt different than any other five minutes. I had to be in a position of no other choice in order to fully be with my child.

What was I doing the rest of the day, real mothers might want to ask? I wish I knew. Elliott kept redirecting me. (I know, it’s supposed to go the other way around). Shortly after we all got up, I carried him outside to get the newspaper. As I started to walk back inside, he pitched a fit, pointing outside and saying “hat.” So we went for a walk. He waved his hand and said something like “sheesish” to ask for music, so I sang until I forgot and he didn’t care anymore. He took off his hat and stuck his hand out of the stroller, waiting for me to take it from him. Occasionally he looked up at me and said “hi.” It was a nice time, but I don’t think it qualifies as “play.”

When we got home, he wasn’t thrilled with my plan to set him down so I could make us some breakfast. I held him a while and put on some music, eventually able to put him down without his face turning into an evil jack-o-lantern. I think he crawled into his high chair (which is on the ground because he always stands up in it), and I gave him some random snacks while I cooked eggs, veggies and sausage. Before either of us could eat anything, he asked to nurse. He’s taken to saying in an angelic voice and signing “please” (“peez?” and rubbing his hand on his chest). If he does this rather than simply reach down my shirt, I oblige. Once he started walking, his interest in nursing soared. For the first of two or three or four times that day, I sat on the couch with the latest issue of Brain,Child magazine while he reconnected and got some nourishment. While the food was still getting cold and uneaten in the kitchen, I realized he’d pooped, so we headed upstairs for a change.

This time I put him in some real clothes in case we headed outside again. I’d been a little embarrassed when the mom of a girl I tutor had run into us on our walk. She saw Elliott in his “pajamas” – a formerly white short-sleeve onesie (was it the one my husband cut the long sleeves short?) stained with all sorts of food from several meals, most notoriously sunflower seed butter. On bottom were his striped Circo pants size nine months (he’s now 17 months old); they are light and stretchy in the waist and perfect for a night that starts out in cool air conditioning but, because of our toddler-minded thermostat, ends with the ceiling fan circulating warm air while the downstairs stays crisp.

At some point in the morning I checked my email and then called Becky, a friend I hadn’t spoken to for months. We both decided our weeks had been too busy to meet up, so we caught up over the phone. Elliott was playing well then, and I was cleaning up from breakfast. I also fed him some berries and coconut milk while I was talking to her. After that is when I caught the other poop – when he started to go upstairs and I realized I hadn’t closed the gate and ran to spot him.

I thought perhaps we should go to the playground before lunch. But the cleaning woman had called after getting back from vacation and said that she could fit us in today so we wouldn’t wait another two weeks. I knew I needed to hide the newspaper to spare it from the recycle bin and to stuff various papers into the storage cube so I could find them later. The kitchen and bathroom counters were beyond cluttered, which meant she would take even longer to do the house and I wouldn’t be able to start dinner until late. So I straightened up as much as I could between breakfast and lunch, between nursing and more nursing, between the tantrum-inspired walk and other tantrums, between diaper changes. I ate lunch with Elliott sitting on the floor, him eating some food and playing with my fork and then the second fork, too.

At1:30, Elliott still didn’t seem ready to nap. He was asking for his shoes, so we went outside. This first foray into the unintentional wilderness that is our backyard, I was fairly engaged. I tossed the ball to him on the slide; he rolled it down. I narrated his play with little plastic balls in one of those things where you put them in at the top and they roll down through a few switchbacks. That was fun. But it seemed late and I wanted to start the nap. We’ve successfully napped in the basement a few times during housecleanings, and I hoped with the bathroom fan on we could manage. I took him to the kitchen to get some water and show him to Sonia so he’d know who was making the noise above him and returned to the futon in the basement hoping for some shut-eye. But the boy was too peppy.

After a few minutes lying down with me and nursing, he smiled and bit my neck and grabbed my cheek. I got the message. It seemed too hot just to go driving in the car, so I thought I might try getting him to sleep in the stroller. He arched his back and gave me a firm “Mnooo” – that’s a soft-sounding “no,” not a “Mom’s Night Out On Opium” or some kind of gooey West African vegetable dish. And “Mnooo!” as a negative interjection is not to be confused with “Mo?” the request for “more.” So instead of taking another walk, we hit the back yard again.

But it was hot, and I was tired and thirsty. I called a few friends to see if they happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to come over to play. While I talked to K’s voicemail and to KM about her visit with her mom, Elliott scooted down the short, steep slope to the flat part of our yard. He was enjoying the grass under his feet, the twigs to touch. At some point after I hung up the phone, we came upon a beach ball, which I threw uphill, and he laughed as it rolled down toward him. This happened enough times that I expected him to start reaching for it, but he just giggled. I suppose that might count as play on some scoreboards.

Eventually Elliott reached for my hand and headed up toward the door. For our transition to quiet activity, I brought out a construction-themed wooden puzzle. Honestly, all the machines looked the same to me the first time I saw it. Pictured in the carved out space underneath the spot for each item – backhoe, bulldozer, barricade – there is a smaller version of the puzzle piece (and the word, thankfully). I finally paid attention and tried to describe the pieces. “Where does this one go? Where do you see wheels and a green arm holding grey cement?” I pointed at individual spots and asked which piece fit, attempting to wedge in all the ones that didn’t fit and then showing my profound excitement over the last one when it did. “Mo?” Elliott said, tapping his little fingers together. He liked this! And it didn’t involve music, or breasts, or outside. He especially thought it was fun when I pinched his fingers around the small red handle and let him feel the piece going into the spot. He was used to chunky knobs, and you could tell he felt like he had just graduated to the full-size lockers in middle school. This is what you’re supposed to do with your child, I thought.

After a while, I rose and sat on the futon. Elliott buried his face in my knees and whined, and I knew it was time for sleep. We laid down and both drifted off while he nursed. I woke when Sonia’s helper was about to bring the dirty linens downstairs; I successfully delatched Elliott and got up. For about an hour I typed quietly on the computer until he woke and immediately stood on the futon like a drunk waking in the middle of the night, thinking he’s still the life of the party. I laid down to see if Elliott was still tired. He pulled up my shirt and he promptly passed back attached to me. It was sweet to watch him sleep and cozy and all, but I was hungry and not tired, and it was almost 5:00. I kept trying to pop Elliott off in the hope that he would either go back to sleep or decide he was ready to wake up. After about the sixth time, he looked at me and babbled in a way that seemed to indicate he was good to go for the next few hours.

As soon as I tried to lead us to our newly pristine upstairs, however, he whined and assumed cling-on mode. He’s learned to wrap his legs around mine so tight that he hardly even needs to hold on with his hands, and I simply cannot put him down. I got out the Ergo carrier hoping to put him on my back. “Mnooo!” he swatted it out of my hands. I stepped with him onto the porch to get the mail, and when I tried to come inside, he started crying. I ran us back to the basement to put back on my now smelly sport tank and shorts after napping in a blackberry-stained t-shirt and boxers. But I couldn’t find the black tank and instead put on a yoga tank I had gotten out in the hopes of resuming my practice. Unfortunately, this top clashed pretty bad with the shorts, which in themselves were embarrassing for showing my eczema-scaly knees, and the tank barely covered my midriff since the pregnancy somehow lengthened my torso without my petite self actually growing any taller. I was hungry and thirsty, but I had the feeling we would be in for a long night if I didn’t get us out to the playground pronto.

Back outside, I was hoping I could hide behind the stroller, but again I met resistance. Elliott insisted on walking, and when he stepped into the street, he pitched a fit and swatted at my attempt to hold his hand. He wriggled when I picked him up, but once we got across the street, I couldn’t put him down. His legs were clamped tighter than a stabilizing grip in shop class. At the playground, he spotted another little boy happily toddled over. The boy – almost three months younger but bigger and with a full head of hair – smiled, and I chatted casually with his mom and dad while inwardly cringing at my outfit and scratched raw knees. The five of us wandered the play structure for a while. When I asked Elliott if it was time to say “bye-bye” and I did not get a “Mnooo!” in reply, I promptly took off, carrying Elliott the whole way home.

My husband drove up just then, and the rest of the evening was spent with me making dinner while John played with Elliott or tried to distract him from screaming at me behind the gate to the kitchen. After changing a diaper as a distraction tactic, John said he entertained Elliott by jumping on the bed and, when he stopped out of fatigue, got an unprompted first two-word sentence: “Mo, peez.”

But back downstairs, it was all we could do to get any food into Elliott besides beets and watermelon. We let him play for a bit in the hopes that he would eat or nurse some more and not wake up early in the night. He brought us a bottle of bubbles, put his finger to his lips to show blowing and said “Mo?” We explained that bubbles were for daytime, for tomorrow, and the world ended. Elliott wailed and wailed all the way upstairs.

The sound of bathwater didn’t calm him, so I headed upstairs to find some pajamas to put on after a shower and to try to get the boy into a better place for sleep. We sat in the rocking chair to read a story, but the CD player we usually keep on the floor had been placed on a bookshelf. Elliott was mesmerized by the blinking wrong time, right at eye level. He pointed to the cheap piece of electronica, waved his hand and made his unintelligible attempt to say something that means “music.” When I did not comply, we lost ground and then some and returned to tantrum mode. John clicked to track 16, a quiet tune called “Arco Iris” (“Rainbow,”). We got out the large version of the board book we’ve been reading Elliott since he was in utero – Time for Bed – my husband and I reading the pages Elliott chose to flip to. When the song ended, we said “All done, music. Bye-bye.” Elliott said “Bye-bye,” and, from his father’s arms, blew me a kiss.

I came down to the basement with a basket full of laundry and looked wistfully at the construction puzzle, remembering those lovely five minutes and wishing I didn’t need to be restricted by space in order to feel free with my time to simply play with my child.