Outwitted by my four year old

This morning I glance up from my laptop to find my son pulling apart the tuna fish sandwich I have just made, at his request. He has taken the top off and is beginning to pick at the tuna with his fingers. I let out an audible sigh, a mixture of exhaustion and frustration that I often feel but seldom express. When did I become a slave to this small child? I try to muster a kind voice, one void of judgement and disappointment, but instead it comes out flat, and it sounds like someone else has spoken.

"Please don't pull your sandwich apart."

He looks up at me. His huge brown eyes are framed with thick, black lashes. He looks like a little man, a miniature of his father. He purses his red lips. This is one of his signature expressions. He has an array of such gestures. He crinkles his forehead and squints his eyes when he is angry, or pretending to be, in an attempt to make what he calls "angry eyebrows." When he's being thoughtful, he brings his right hand to his chin, stroking it with his thumb and pointer finger, the same motion his father makes while stroking his beard.

Now his pursed lips form the familiar word, "Mom."

Sometimes when I hear this word I'm reminded of when my oldest was first beginning to speak. I was on the sofa, drifting between sleep and the only slightly more mindful state that was my reality. The baby was sleeping and my oldest, all of twenty-one months, was playing with trucks on the large braided wool rug in the living room. I became aware of the word "Mama, Mama," being repeated over and over again, but all I could think was, Why does he keep saying that word? That's not my name. Now I turn whenever I hear that word, or any form of it, coming from any small mouth. It has not just become my new name, it defines me in every way.

"Mom," he says again. "Do you want me to act like myself?"

This is something I have been saying to him now and then, when I notice him behaving like a friend of his. Now he's using this to his advantage, setting me up.

"Yes, of course I do."

"Well," he announces in his sweet four year old voice while stretching his arms open and over the table, in a laying-it-all-on-the-table gesture, "this is what I do."