by Diana Day
My daughters have this little catch-all phrase they use to ask my husband Dwayne and I to clean up or fix something: kemp-kemp. I’m not sure what it’s derived from, perhaps “clean up” or something like that.
It infuriates me, and I don’t really know why.
I think it makes me feel overly bossed around. Being bossed around by 2 1/2-year old twins is the story of my life now, but I am normally at peace with it. I figure it’s the job of a 2 1/2-year old to boss a little; after all, they are still learning the finer points of courtesy. But for some reason, the “kemp-kemp” command is more than I can swallow.
This morning, as Dinah and Djuna were eating their cereal, if the tiniest pin prick of a drop of milk splashed on the table, they delighted in calling out, “Kemp-kemp, Mama, kemp-kemp!” I felt myself getting irritated, so I put on my cleverest Mommy thinking cap and decided to put a paper towel under their bowls so they wouldn’t be so bothered by the little drops.
Djuna loved the paper towel, but Dinah was dead-set against it, so I removed the offending obect. As soon as I turned my back to put Dinah’s paper towel back on the kitchen counter, she called out, “Kemp-kemp, Mama, kemp-kemp!” As if it’s not enough to have to wipe up every little drop of spilled milk, I have to endure it from a toddler who is, essentially, saying, “Waiter, get a move on!”
But, we all made it to naptime, exhausted. Looking at my disaster of a house, I realize that I have to kemp-kemp just to navigate safely through the ocean of toys to the kitchen so I can make myself a relaxing cup of cocoa.
So, kemp-kemp it is. And then cocoa.