Mo Mommy Ma Ma

A few months ago, Diana asked Elijah’s pre-school teachers how he was doing. His teacher responded, “He really likes correcting us.”

Don’t I know it. Eli likes being right. And he likes letting you know when you are wrong. Let’s say you are presenting him with a plate full of his favorite food: Lavies. Lavies are Chef Boyardee canned ravioli. Don’t look at me like that. They have a full serving of vegetables. And he loves them. If you want to come over and cook him a plate full of organic bark bites, be my guest. Grover will enjoy eating them off our walls.

Where was I? Oh, Lavies. Let’s say you’re presenting him with Lavies and you say, “Look Eli! Lavies!” He’ll respond with, “No! They’re BIG Lavies.”

To which I say, “I stand corrected. Here are your BIG lavies.”

I really don’t mind being corrected. Especially when he’s right and I’m wrong. Like the names of obscure Curious George characters or the size of his processed lunch. But sometimes he makes up reasons to correct me.

The other night, I was reading a Richard Scarry book to him. Remember those books? The late 1960’s highly detailed and hilarious scenes of animals driving cars like the “Picklemobile?” Yeah, I just blew your mind.

Well, one of the characters is called “Goldbug.” He’s a bug. Who is gold. On each page of said book, you’re asked to locate Goldbug among the twenty or so cars crammed with rabbits or pigs, usually crashing into watermelon trucks. It was an early version of “Where’s Waldo?” Without the annoyingly smug look on Waldo’s face.

For some reason, Elijah refused to call him Goldbug. Every time I’d read, “Can you find Goldbug?” Eli would respond, “No! Not Goldbug. Mo Mommy Ma Ma. 'Can you find Mo Mommy Ma Ma.'”

At first, I tried to argue with him. “No, buddy. I can read and you can’t. His name is not Mo Mommy Ma Ma. It’s Goldbug. G-O-L…” But then I realized I was trying to argue with a two and a half year old who is still searching our closets for the talking cow that inhabits his dreams. I was already on the verge of insanity. Continuing the argument would simply topple me over to looking for my own talking cows.

I wondered if this was a name made up by his mother as some kind of self promotion. But I hardly think the woman who feeds, clothes and protect from harm every member of our family needs any more good press.

I finally gave up and put him into his crib and told him to lay down on his pillow. He corrected me. He would be sleeping on his Googy Bear, thank you very much.

Man, I am really lacking recent photographs. So enjoy this picture from four months ago.