Mami vs. the Klingons

It was one of those mornings.

One of those mornings that I wish my name was something other than Mami.

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamEEE. Mami. MamEEE. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi.


Geez! How many different ways could one say Mami?
How many different places in such a small word could you put the accent?


And don’t think I didn’t respond. Don’t think I was ignoring my lovely Little and that’s why she kept calling my name:


Mami. MamiMAmi. MamEEE. Mami. MamEEE. MAmi. MAMIMami. Mami. MamiMAmi. MamEEEMami.


Bitch, please.
I responded. I responded in English and in Spanish.
I responded plenty:


What language did she want me to respond in? Klingon? I’ll tell you what – I’ma learn Klingon just so that next time I could say it in Klingon. As a matter of fact, after just looking it up, apparently “huh” in Klingon is “Nuqjatlh” which is perfect because I could use the most ridiculous word from the most ridiculous of languages in the most ridiculous of situations.

HerMami. MamiMAmi. MamEEE.
Me: Nuqjatlh.


It was one of those mornings when I swear, my lovely Klingon children where put here on Earth as repayment for the heartache and grief that I “supposedly” caused my mother (although I have yet to see real proof that I was really all that difficult).


One of those mornings where even sitting next to Baby Klingon wasn’t enough. If he wasn’t climbing my face  and sticking his fingers in my mouth, eyeball, or nose he wasn’t happy. If I moved, even an inch he screamed -at a very high screeching octave. Not even an inch? I can’t move even because I slammed my pinky toe on the corner of iron post of your bed and hopping on one toe, spitting words no child that young could possibly understnad. Even that is too much movement, really? And his Baby Klingon sense of Mami Movement is so acute that even when he is distracted and playing on the opposite side of the room, any movement from my direction causes his head to whip around and look at me through piercing owl eyes just to make sure that I haven’t move, that I’m not even thinking about moving. Ok. I’ll stay right here, owl eyes. hoot. hoot.


It was one of those mornings when I actually tried to reason with a 2-year-old which I think might make me crazier than them, right? Because let’s be honest, what intelligent person reasons with a 2-year-old? Rather what intelligent person reasons with a 2-year-old and actually expects to be heard? Well, a not very intelligent person at all.


HerMami. MamiMAmi. MamEEE.
Me: I don’t want to talk to you right now. (said very sincerely)
HerMami. MamiMAmi. MamEEEMami. MamiMAmi. MamEEE.
Me: I’m not talking to you. (said sincerely, slowly, and well pronounced.

Seriously. I said that. I said, “I don’t want to talk to you right now,” to my 2-year-old as if she’d understand that. As if she’d look at me with insight and empathetically say, “I understand, crazy lady. You need some alone time right now. Some you time. Got it. I’ll give you some space. Here, I’ll even close the door behind me.”
Instead she swung her little doll arm up in the air and slapped me down my face. Oh yeah. Down my face. The slap grazed my bottom eye lid, my nose, and my bottom lip. Yeah. It’s even more humbling than the slap across the face.


Around this time, it was becoming one of those mornings when I thought about how if I poked my eye out with my eyeliner no one would fault me. I’d have to be rushed to the ER and I’d be forced to spend some of my day there, a well-rested break. A few hours to lay down and have people wait on me and bring me food in between a nap in a bed all to myself with no Klingons. Maybe I’d even have to stay over night and wouldn’t that be delightful?


Mami. MamiMAmi. MamEEEMami. MamiMAmi. MamEEE.
(That pencil to the eye was looking P-A-retty good.)

It was one of those mornings where when nap time rolled in, I took a moment to thank God – no literally I said, “Thank you, Almighty Heavenly Father for getting me – and the Klingons – to this hour… without harm.” I carried Toddler Klingon to her room:


Not again. “MmHmm.” I answered cautiously.
“Mami. Música, I Love You,” she says which is what she calls the lullaby I sing to her.


I begin:


Who knows how long I’ve loved you.
You know I love you still…

and I hear, “Steeeel.” I chuckle because she’s repeating me.


Will I wait a lonely lifetime…

“Weeeee I waaay lie tie.” Oh God. She’s not repeating. She’s singing along… in Klingon. But nevertheless, she’s singing along with the song that I told myself 20 years ago would be the lullaby I sang to my kids – before I really had any idea what it meant to have kids – and now here is this real, beautiful Klingon singing back my lullaby? This same Klingon who was trying to stab me in the eye with an eyeliner pencil a half hour ago with the help of her Klingon brother is now singing back my lullaby with her head nestled in my neck?


If you want me to, I will.

“Mami.” She says again.
“Yes, Rafa.”
“Música, I Love You.”
“Yes, Rafa. Música, I Love You.”
Damn it, Klingons. You win this one.


Who knows how long I’ve loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely lifetime
If you want me to I will
For if I ever saw you
I didn’t catch your name
but it never really mattered
I will always feel the same
Love you forever… and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we’re together
Love you when we’re apart
And when at least I find you
Your song will fill the air
Sing it loud so I can hear you
Make it easy to be near you
For the things you do, endear you to me
Oh you know I will.
I will.

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