Mama is the new Dada; Or is it the other way around?

Cass has always been a mama’s boy.

First I was the food source, a person he knew by smell and taste. Then there was the gloriously rewarding recognition of my face, manifested in extra gummy smiles and excited cooing, followed later by holding preferences of both the persnickety and affectionate variety.

There has been copious clinging. He’s a friendly little bugger as long as I’m close by. He established a rotating hierarchy of who could hold him when, but I generally trump everyone, even if I don’t particularly want to—especially when sick, tired or fresh from a face plant. Mama was his first word. He can be needy and demanding and cries if I leave the room. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I still pee with him sitting on my lap most of the time.

When I'm not home, Cass finds a framed photo of me in the house, and chants Mama over and over until someone successfully distracts him. Not a tremendously competitive parent, Ryan is far more touched by our relationship than begrudged. But then something happened.

Cass started calling him Mama. Even though he’s been saying Dada perfectly clearly for several months running, Dada has become Mama. As in:

Me (to Cass, pointing at Ryan): Who’s that?

Cass: Mama

Ryan: No Cass, Dada. I’m Dada. She’s Mama (pointing to me)

Cass (shaking his head no, vehemently): Mama

This mysterious development has proven incredibly frustrating for poor, dear Ryan. I can’t think of something more emasculating for a new dad than walking into your son’s daycare classroom, greeted by the pitter-patter of his toddler feet peddling toward you, shrieking “Mama, Mama, Mama” with outstretched arms. Which, unfortunately, happened last week to Ryan. In front of other parents.

For now, we're a modern family, and Cass has two Mamas. I wonder if this means I'll be able to go to the bathroom solo? Probably not.

The Gifted One

Last time we flew with Cass, I misplaced my boarding pass and we almost missed Christmas in Florida. It was a two and a half hour flight, and I thought I was going to pass out, because my nerves were so frazzled. In tow, luggage, stroller, carseat, pack-n-play, breast pump, bottles, a diaper bag, an eight-month-old.

This time around, our flight time was eight hours—after getting to New York, that is. Door to door—car, puddle jumper, moving walkways, Boeing 777, Rome airport tram, mini van—we traveled with a 17-month-old for 18 hours. What we shed in baby accessories (thank you for carseat rentals), we offset with toddler distraction devices. DVD player, twenty pounds of solid board book, iPod videos, peanut butter crackers, Benedryl.

After a series of delays, traffic back-ups and airport circling, the return trip clocked more than 24 hours, door to door. He slept less than three of those hours. Keeping a feisty, easily-bored 17-month-old from not irritating fellow passengers to the point of over-the-back-of-seat dirty looks, thinly veiled sarcastic remarks, and overt “shut that kid up!” stares and gestures is an exercise in extreme stamina, teamwork and dedication. It could be an Olympic sport. And just like most professional sports, it takes serious willpower to resist the call of performance-enhancing drugs like Valium.

When we walked up to the gate in Rome, one woman took one look at Cass and remarked in her eye-rolling, loud voice, “OH GREAT, A BABY!” Ryan and I shrunk to the sidelines, and when it was game time, our stomachs turned when we realized we were sitting right beside her. Ultimately, Cass was a perfect angel from on High, save for a few uncomfortable squirm sessions and short-lived temper flare-ups, which could usually be circumvented by letting him run up and down the aisle a couple times or sneak into the little three-foot storage area he discovered in the back of the plane. He eventually won over this [crazy] lady, who caused an embarrassing scene with the friendly flight attendants about running out of the turkey dish (“I SHOULD JUST EAT THE FISH, SO YOU CAN SEE WHAT HAPPENS! I WILL BE VOMITTING ALL OVER YOU!!!! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? HOW DARE YOU PUT THIS FISH IN FRONT OF ME!” and on and on and on). Somewhere east of Ireland, maybe 30 degrees longitude or so, finally over the sordid fish episode, she made her very serious prognosis: Cass is gifted. In ways we cannot possibly understand. Get ready, she warned: his mechanical understanding is deep, she observed, and that glint in his eye reveals an extraordinary curiosity not found in normal babies. Apparently, she has worked with gifted children all her life, so you heard it here first. Cass is a gifted child. Definitely gifted, she murmured several times under her breath, shaking her head, in awe of her own discovery. I wonder what she would have been saying about him under her breath (or screaming out loud) had I not spiked his sippy cup with benedryl.

Even if Cass would have freaked out, screamed, pounded his fists, sobbed like a tortured animal every minute of each flight leg, I think our vacation still would have been worth it. In the interest of full disclosure, we didn’t have to pay for our lodging (I was reviewing the beautiful Tuscan farmhouse for a magazine). And it’s a good thing. After watching Cass run around the grounds for hours on end, exploring the earth with his little hands, it occurred to me that he probably would have had just as much fun camping.

Destination Italia!