"What's in a name?" Shakespeare had his tragic heroine ask in his tale of star-crossed lovers. "That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet."
Only a man could write this - and a man without children! Shakespeare was clearly not trying to raise two two year olds, because if he did, he would not even have contemplated asking such a stupid question.
For the past three decades I have been know as Charlotte. Not my favourite girl’s name granted, but hey I can live with it. Over the years, I have been referred to by family and friends as (variations on this name) – Lottie (the most hated), Charl (still used today by the nearest and dearest), Charlie B (Uni friends who remember the care free days of being young and very reckless).
I can even recount moments in my life where I have been addressed as a letter - 'C' - I never knew whether it was a term of endearment, sheer laziness, or worse still (dare I say it out loud?) Mr X really had no idea who I was.
Then I hit the big 30 and produced two very vocal members of the next generation and they introduced a new name. A name which doesn't discriminate. It transgresses continents and borders, race and religion and age and, in some cases it has been known - gender.
This ancient, precious, five letter word, has evolved in Western society from its origins as a noun, to an adjective and a verb. Over the last twelve months it has grated on ever single nerve ending in my body.
'MUMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY'.
God, I hear it in my sleep ... no it wasn't a dream or a nightmare. It is the ritual calling card of the dynamic duo every day and every night as they summon me to rub their bellies (anti-clockwise of course) or, hold their hands until they go to sleep or, bring them juice, or varying items of food groups.
I have wondered over the last few months, how five measly letters can have such an overwhelming impact on me?
When the tiny two first started talking, the first words to leave there lips was ‘Dada’ not 'Mummy' or 'Ma' or even 'Mu'. Dada! So disturbed was I at this illogically cruel turn of events, that I decided to consult friends, family, long lost relatives - even, dare I say, it the 'books'.
It is universally agreed that despite a mother’s best intentions to give up her life, be on call 24/7, provide love, entertainment, food and comfort, the loving reference ‘Mummy’ will arrive much later than expected.
In fact, if I remember rightly, 'Mama' was possibly the twenty-sixth word to leave their lips. ‘Cat’. ‘Dog’. ‘Milk’. They all took precedence over ‘Mama’. Unfortunately, when it did it eventually enter their vocabulary and was perfected to a 'T' it was swiftly followed by an echo, moan or scream 'mammmmmmmmmmmmmma.'
Over the months, the dynamic duo have perfected the sound, tone, even length of the word and I can assure you that those PB (prebabies) warm fuzzy thoughts of one day being a mother with my charming delightful children calling me 'Mum' have long since vanished and have been replaced by the newest, bestest game in the world, 'Who can be quiet the longest?'
The importance of establishing early on in their lives my name was of great concern to me for quite some time.
When they developed the determining human ability to walk on two legs, I awoke late one night overcome by an alarming irrational fear. Having leapt out of bed at a speed which Zola Bud would be proud, I quickly checked their cots to see if they were still alive and breathing. Fortunately, a rare moment of sanity entered my befuddled brain, which stopped me from physically waking them to hug them and tell them I loved them. I quickly projected to two hours forward and imagined the pain of trying to get them back to sleep.
However, since that moment, my greatest fear is losing them in a shop, or a shopping centre. Having tormented myself for hours, days and months analysing the various possible scenarios which could occur, I decided to take bull by the horns and prep them on personal safety.
Having prized them away from the daily two hours of Toy Story I made them practice our telephone number, address, their full name and next of kin and finally, I hit them with it 'Mummy has two names.'
Four hours later having consumed vast quantities of coffee (me not them), two packets of Quavers, some cheese dunkers and a gallon of juice (them not me), they still didn't get it. 'Mummy's name is not Charlotte. It's Mummy. Silly Mummy'
Then, last Saturday, we decided to take a trip to Jump with another member of the motherhood fellowship and her darling Dottie. For those who have not discovered this wonderful and necessary indoor play centre, Jump is a must. We arrived at this former warehouse and found half the population of Cardiff had had the same idea.
After beating our way through the face painting, negotiating the trampolines and dogging the small things crawling beneath our feet, we settled down in the small cordoned off play area for under 3's. After drinking a coffee (a staple part of mother's diet) I looked around and couldn't see (her) anywhere.
At first, I jumped into the play pen, dug deep beneath the ball pit, climbed up the plastic shaky slide (I don't think it's used to 11 stone bearing down on it) and then oh God, I was struck by the realisation that she was not here.
Just as my heart rate was about ready to put me in an early coma, over the tannoi came a high pitched welsh lilt, 'Could Charlotte, Mummy to M, dressed in a pig’s costume with a purple t-shirt please come to reception?'
And at that moment I stood still and smiled. I breathed a sign of relief. Months, weeks, days, hours of preparation for this very moment.
And, so Mr Shakespeare I will say this. In every person’s life, particularly a mother’s, there comes a moment when you realise that you simply can not be known by any other name.
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