My daughter doesn't know my name.

I don't mean that she is unable to say Katiedid Langrock. Most adults struggle with that one. I mean that she doesn't know "Mama." Or, more accurately, she doesn't seem to know that the name should belong to me.

My 19-month-old shocked me last week when she picked up one of our many Llama Llama books, flipped through the pages, pointed gleefully at the purse-carrying, advice-giving maternal figure and screamed out, "Mama!" Great, so the kid recognizes the walking winter sweater as a mommy but not the one who stayed up all night nursing her for 15 months.

I'm not bitter. I'm not. OK, maybe a bit.

My daughter has said "Dada" for nearly a year now. She says banana, Pig, ouch, yes, no, butterfly, brother, poop, up, thank you, please, silly, dog and water, and one evening — when she was out to stampede over my self-worth — she pointed to the dinosaur cartoon my son was watching and screamed, "Pterodactyl!"

I see where I stand. Under "poop."

I try to get her to say my name. At dinnertime, we take turns going around the table, encouraging her to say our names. When we get to Mama, she just throws back her head and laughs. It's possible she's an evil genius. Or a psychopath. It's too early to get her tested at Gotham Psychiatric for Joker-esque tendencies, right?

Unwilling to give up, I have moved from simply playing name games and using gentle encouragement to trying to outright trick her. Once she gleefully shrieks the name of that arrogant alpaca, I stick my face under her pudgy pointer finger. My daughter is not impressed. I've tried bribing her, insisting she say my name before I give her a beloved banana. She said "bamama" once, and I took it as a win, though, let's be honest, 19-month-olds aren't usually known for their stellar annunciation skills. She probably has no idea she accidentally slipped me a self-esteem upper.

I needed my next fix.

One of my daughter's favorite things to do is name the people in photos. Those people never include me, of course, the diaper-changing, lullaby-singing, midnight-rocking, temperature-taking, forehead-kissing, endlessly cuddling creature who brought her into the world. Utterly determined, I lined up as many pictures as I could that prominently show me. We went down the line of framed photos. For the first dozen or so pictures, she named the other person featured in the photo with me, with no mention of my existence whatsoever. No worries. I wasn't concerned. I knew I had a trick up my sleeve. The very last picture displayed me alone with my old dog. No way out of saying "Mama" this time, kid. When we finally got to the last photo, I grinned. I had her right where I wanted her. "And who's in this picture, baby?" I asked. She looked at me. She was going to say it. It was on the tip of her tongue. I could practically taste it. My daughter smiled and said, "Woof woof!"

I tell myself she was talking about the dog.

What is it, this need for nomenclature? It's silly, really. I know it is. I know she loves me. I know she understands, to the best of a 19-month-old's ability to understand, that I am her mama. That I am her person. The boo-boo kisser. The monster chaser. The butt wiper. Not that I would prefer that my daughter call me any of those names instead. But the questions remains: If I'm not concerned about our level of attachment, why am I so attached to the name recognition?

I guess recognition is what it's all about. We do so much as parents — so much that is unnoticed and unappreciated and always will be. So much goes unrecognized and unrewarded except for the one medal of honor that sneaks through the cracks: We get to be a "dada" or "mama." That's the reward. That's the thanks. And it's oh-so worth it.

Yesterday my daughter was elbow-deep in a complete meltdown because I hadn't peeled her precious banana perfectly. She is very particular about the peel. Unwilling to suffer the screams any longer, I brought her a new banana and said, "Here! Do you want a new one?" She clutched the fruit, choked back her tears, climbed into my lap and said, "Bamama."

I'll take it.

Katiedid Langrock is author of the book "Stop Farting in the Pyramids," available at http://www.creators.com/books/stop-farting-in-the-pyramids. Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about her and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.