Call Me “Mommy”
If you ask Oscar, he’ll tell you he’s going to be nine this summer. This is a very big deal, of course, because it’s his last year in single digits. He’s growing up–and nowhere is that more apparent than in the way he addresses me. Since he could speak until very recently it was always “Mommy.” Sometimes more drawn-out than others, depending upon what he needed or wanted, but always “Mommy.”
In the last several months, though, I have become just “Mom.”
Now, of course, no one is ever “just Mom.” “Mom” is a great moniker, a treasured title. I’m happy with it. And I still hear “Mommy”–from Oscar’s two younger brothers; and I’m sure I’ll be hearing it for some time.
But not from Oscar.
I’m guessing daughters are different. I have heard grown women call their fathers “Daddy” and even their mothers “Mommy.” But no matter how hard I jiggle my head, I can’t come up with a single instance of a grown man using the same terms for his parents.
And just as I was about to sigh and chalk this up to growth for my son and a memory for me, Oscar got sick this week. And from the livingroom, where he was all curled up on a cozy chair with his beloved cat, he called out to me . . .
He needed a tissue.
And I got to hold on to my title for another day.