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.