Mami vs. the Klingons

One of those mornings that I wish my name was something other than Mami.

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE. Mami. MamEEE. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi.

Geez! How many different ways could one say Mami?

How many different places in such a small word could you put the accent?

And don’t think I didn’t respond. Don’t think I was ignoring my lovely Little and that’s why she kept calling my name:

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE. Mami. MamEEE. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE. Mami.

Bitch, please.
I responded. I responded in English and in Spanish.
I responded plenty:

What language did she want me to respond in? Klingon? I’ll tell you what – I’ma learn Klingon just so that next time I could say it in Klingon. As a matter of fact, after just looking it up, apparently “huh” in Klingon is “Nuqjatlh” which is perfect because I could use the most ridiculous word from the most ridiculous of languages in the most ridiculous of situations.

Her: Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE.
Me: Nuqjatlh.

There.

It was one of those mornings when I swear, my lovely Klingon children where put here on Earth as repayment for the heartache and grief that I “supposedly” caused my mother (although I have yet to see real proof that I was really all that difficult).

 

One of those mornings where even sitting next to Baby Klingon wasn’t enough. If he wasn’t climbing my face  and sticking his fingers in my mouth, eyeball, or nose he wasn’t happy. If I moved, even an inch he screamed -at a very high screeching octave. Not even an inch? I can’t move even because I slammed my pinky toe on the corner of iron post of your bed and hopping on one toe, spitting words no child that young could possibly understnad. Even that is too much movement, really? And his Baby Klingon sense of Mami Movement is so acute that even when he is distracted and playing on the opposite side of the room, any movement from my direction causes his head to whip around and look at me through piercing owl eyes just to make sure that I haven’t move, that I’m not even thinking about moving. Ok. I’ll stay right here, owl eyes. hoot. hoot.

It was one of those mornings when I actually tried to reason with a 2-year-old which I think might make me crazier than them, right? Because let’s be honest, what intelligent person reasons with a 2-year-old? Rather what intelligent person reasons with a 2-year-old and actually expects to be heard? Well, a not very intelligent person at all.

Seriously. I said that. I said, “I don’t want to talk to you right now,” to my 2-year-old as if she’d understand that. As if she’d look at me with insight and empathetically say, “I understand, crazy lady. You need some alone time right now. Some you time. Got it. I’ll give you some space. Here, I’ll even close the door behind me.”

Instead she swung her little doll arm up in the air and slapped me down my face. Oh yeah. Down my face. The slap grazed my bottom eye lid, my nose, and my bottom lip. Yeah. It’s even more humbling than the slap across the face.

Around this time, it was becoming one of those mornings when I thought about how if I poked my eye out with my eyeliner no one would fault me. I’d have to be rushed to the ER and I’d be forced to spend some of my day there, a well-rested break. A few hours to lay down and have people wait on me and bring me food in between a nap in a bed all to myself with no Klingons. Maybe I’d even have to stay over night and wouldn’t that be delightful?

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE.
(That pencil to the eye was looking P-A-retty good.)