You can call me Diana Whitney, the poet formerly known as Diana Sabot. My 3-and -a-half year old daughter, whom I’ll refer to as A., now calls me “Diana” too. As in, “Hey Diana? You know my friend Hello Kitty?”

Sometimes she still calls me “Mommy”, but we’ve entered a new phase of self-expression and identity. I’m trying not to let it bother me.

Thankfully my 20 month-old daughter, C., calls me “Mama” all the time. She is talking up a storm now, learning many new words a day. She loves to say “PINK” and “SEAL”, and today she made a decent attempt at “PENGUIN.” What she lacks in enunciation she makes up for in emphasis– she’ll keep yelling the same syllable until you understand what she means.

It’s a rainy Friday afternoon, pouring warm spring rain. A. is naked–supposedly she’s a baby mouse and mice don’t wear clothes. She drew a huge tattoo on her belly button with blue marker. C. has ringworm on her back and is healing from pink-eye and has been grumpy as a bear since waking from her too-short nap. I’m typing one-handed while she nurses in my lap.

We’re blasting “RAFFI RADIO“, looking out the window at the muddy dirt road, waiting for Daddy to come home.

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