Are You my Mother?

I have a special daughter named Mozelle who wraps strangers around her pinky for amusement. She's six and a half years old. Mozy really loves people, and I do mean really LOVES them. She's not afraid to touch them, talk to them, ask them to take her home . . .

Sometimes she even puts her hands on the chest of any adult human female on the elevator and asks, "Are you my mom?"

Last December, I had her in the opthamalogist's office. There were elderly people everywhere. She put her hand on this man's neck and started interrogating.

Where do you live? Can I go to your house? Why do you have glasses? Is that your mom? Did she bring you here? Can I go to your house?

I'm simultaneously trying to fill out new-patient forms and read microscopic data from insurance cards, monitor Mozelle's antics, and keep my toddler happy and still.

Periodically I say things like, "Honey, please don't bend the blinds", and "Please don't turn off the lights", and "It's not polite to touch strangers without their permission".

She asked the man if it was OK for her to touch him. He said "No" and she let go. That didn't discourage her, though. She went and found someone else to hug and hold on to.

We found out that day that Mozelle's vision was 20/80. She got glasses to help correct her farsightedness, astigmatism, and outward-drifting left eye.

Not long ago, we found ourselves at Gram's house, where Mozy gave an impromptu chest massage to my surprised mom.

Mozelle: Why do you have big nipples?

Gram: So I could feed your mommy.

Mozelle: You nursed her because you're her mom!

Gram: That's right.

Mozelle: And her nursed you?

Gram: No, Grannie Rozella nursed me.

Between me, my older daughter Noelle and my mom and Mozelle, we had a thorough review of the breastfeeding legacy. Angela decided that Grannie Rozella, in effect, had nursed all of my daughters . . .

Not long after all this, I was lamenting the fact that I just seem so uneducated when it comes to weaning my nurslings. I finally said, "I guess I'm just not a weaner." Gram said, "No, you're not!" She must have been thinking, "You're a BOOB!"