1 Mother 2 Another

Cora’s going through this phase of
wanting to be someone else, and refusing to answer unless you call
her by the correct name. She’s picked a variety of made-up
names and titles (Princess, for example) but the name that’s
stuck the most is Thomas. As in, the tank engine.


Friday Cora insisted on wearing her red Thomas t-shirt and red
leggings, and declared her name was Thomas. “Cora,”
I’d say, “Come get your brown sneakers on.”
“There’s no Cora here,” she’d say in a
sing-songy voice, “Only Thomas!”

“Thomas,” I’d huff in
barely restrained frustration, “Come get your brown sneakers
on!”


“Thomas doesn’t wear sneakers – Thomas has
wheels,” the floaty voice would continue.


“This Thomas,” I’d say through gritted teeth,
“wears these brown wheel covers!”


Cora would drift over. “Oh, those are Thomas’ blue
wheel covers! Perfect!”


She insisted all day that everyone call her Thomas, and admire her
blue paint job. Even when she was playing dress-up with friends,
she was Princess Thomas and made sure her tutu had some blue in it.


“Thomas would like a grilled-cheese sandwich, please.”
“Thomas needs a long, cool drink of water at Tidmouth Hault
Station, please.” “Thomas needs to go potty.”


Right when I was about to throttle her she declared, “Ok,
I’m not Thomas any more, just a girl.”


Thank you for small miracles.


And apparently the name changing doesn’t apply just to her;
Sunday night she declared my mom’s name is now
“Pah-poo” and called her only by that. “Cora, go
hug Gamma night-night.”


Nothing.


“Cora, go hug Pah-poo night-night.”


“Certainly, Mommy.”


I’m not sure how long I can take this – or how
I’m going to feel about whatever nickname comes down the
pipeline for me.