This is Cakie’s new favorite game. It is the game in which he gets to call someone “Daddy” and they don’t get all weird about it. Especially funny and freightening, is when the exterminator, Ralph, rings the doorbell on his every-other-Tuesday visit, and Cakie exclaims, “Hi Daddy!” (“We didn’t meet at some party, did we?” he whispers to me, both chuckling and slightly fearful.)
He had seen repeated episodes of Dora the Explorah, in which it is her sidekick, Boots’s special day. Boots gets to visit his monkey daddy who is also an architect who designs roller coasters. Cake knows that neither me nor my partner want to be called “Daddy.” He has tried several times, believe me. Though some folks who I dig enjoy that role, it is just not in us particularly, for reasons very similar to those stated very well by Chicory some time ago.
But one day, he decided to take the pretend route. “I Boots.” “You Boots Daddy.” I looked at the little guy. He wants to call somebody Daddy. Whenever he tries with our male friends (or the exterminator) they get all blushy and nervous and clarify things. “No, no. I’m so-and-so’s Daddy,” or “Why don’t you call me Uncle Ralph?” I have this whole big “Some people have a Mommy and a Daddy, and some lucky people like you and your friends so-and-so and so-and-so get to have two Daddys or two Mommies.” I don’t think he’s ready for that speech. He just wants to call someone Daddy.
So I said, “Ok. I’m Daddy Boots. Do you want a banana, Boots?” Now we play the game a lot. I feel oddly comfortable with it. Mostly because he knows I’m really Mommy. And because it makes him happy. And because I don’t mind pretending to be an architect who designs roller coasters. Cool.
I’m a pregnant Daddy monkey architect. Hopefully just for now.