"Just you and me, Gaga."
He's two. I'm two plus two decades plus a couple more years I sometimes forget I've lived. But since he was thisbig, since he was a brand new human being, there have been so many times where it's just me — his Gaga — and him. First rocking, rocking, rocking, then wobbling, then sitting, then crawling, then walking, then stumbling, then running, then a combination of every variety of mobility.
There's something about that "guh" sound that little ones cling to. He took advantage of that hard consonant stuck in the middle of my name and hasn't let go of it, until now.
Now, on the cusp on his third birthday, he's starting to call me Megan, almost in a mocking way. Ha ha, I'm a real person now, Megan. I don't need those baby nicknames anymore, Megan. It's like he can sniff out my desperation to keep him little — no, please, don't ever outgrow my hip — forever.
But he will. And I'll tell him how he used to call me "Gaga" and he'll roll his eyes in an I've-heard-this-story-before way.
Until then, it's just you and me, baby.