I'm changing my name from MOMMY and I'm not going to tell anybody what my new name is.

My new name will be Cameron.
But don't tell my kids.

Then when they call MOMMY, I'll be lying in bed painting my toenails vampire violet.
And I won't answer.

While they scream MOMMY, I have no socks…
I can't find my shoes. What did you do with them? (Like I've been wearing size 3 white patent leather shoes)

I will be upstairs, giving myself a mud masque deep cleansing pore revival.

While they are shouting that MOMMY should find their French book because it's her fault that they can't find it (right, I was up conjugating verbs all night),

I will be practicing doing my hair in a multibraid bun studded with rhinestones.

While they are getting hysterical because they lost their permission slip to go to the science museum and need MOMMY to sign it,

I will be practicing aromatherapy, scenting the backs of my ears and wrists with violet ambrosia patchouli oil.

When they stomp their feet because they need MOMMY to find them a white shirt for chorus and they can't find any bread without mold,

I will be in the bath reading Jane Eyre.

And when they finally storm up the stairs to find MOMMY because they didn't do their homework because of MOMMY and they can't go to school until they do their fractions,

I will be massaging each pressure point on my feet.

So I will be able to relax, speaking softly, as Cameron would speak.

And I will say:

"Your mommy has changed her name

but I can't tell you her new name."

And they will scream and scream, "Tell us. Tell us…."

And even though I don't want to say it,

Cameron will make me tell.

"Kids," I will say, gathering them close together and hugging them.

"My new name is

DAD."

And I, Cameron, will feel the greatest of pleasure

as I lie in bed, watching videos, eating parmesan popcorn,

and drinking mocha cappuccinos from the coffee machine I install in my room, while the children call

DAD,

There's nothing to eat and

DAD, we want something to drink.

And DAD we missed the bus.

And DAD we need you to drive us to Amber's house after school.

And then take us to the mall.

And Dad I forgot but I lost my biteplate.

And Dad the dog threw up.

And Dad there's no toilet paper.

And Dad, it's your fault I missed the bus

and failed French. And it's your fault that Mrs. Lotati yelled at me.

And then I will call my husband and he will come up to the bedroom

and we will drink mocha cappuccinos.

And then I will change his name too.

He will be called Dylan.

And we won't tell the children.