Mommy Dearest

Jenny (not her real name) is not happy.

Wait. Yes, it is her real name. Sorry, lady, but when you post it on social media, you’re fair game.

Jenny’s 4-year old son has decided to change her moniker from ‘Mommy’ to ‘Mom’.

Ever the voice of reason, I try to counsel that this is just the natural progression for a child. Frankly, though, I don’t ever remember calling my own mom anything but ‘Mom’.

I recall a discussion with a fellow co-worker a while back (she’s also a mom) whose son still referred to her as Mommy even though the boy was turning seven. She didn’t mind at all as her biggest fear was that she would one day be called ‘Mama’.

My admonishment was stern.

“Lady, you live in the South. Mother is Mama. Mommy is Mama. Mom is Mama. One day, you’re gonna have grandkids and they’re going to call you Grandmama. Or Grannymama. Or Big Mama. Get over it, and get used to it.”

She wasn’t buying it. Today, as the kid hits 10-years old, she’s still ‘Mommy’. That’s creepy. It’s also the stuff that school-ground whuppin’s are made of. “Hey, boy, I got a little somethin’ for you. Then you can go runnin’ home and let your mommy kiss it and make it all better!”

I keep waiting to read about ‘Mommy’ in the newspaper. Something involving wire coat hangers.

Still, I’ve heard this discussion enough through the years to know that this change of name is meaningful. Indeed, several of Jenny’s friends agree that the event is traumatic.

Jenny has another child that is eight. He calls her ‘Mom’, but he’s eight, and to her, that’s the difference. One kid is old enough, the other is not. She’s a bit of a control freak, too, so there’s that issue.

Jenny has decided to deal with this new development by calling her youngest son by half his own name. He’s not Davis, anymore, he’s Dave because isn’t retaliation what all moms are supposed to do?

I sort of doubt Dave cares. He’s a second-born. I’m a second-born, and I wouldn’t care. We’re fun, funny, independent, and care-free.

And we’re smarta**es.

Cover Me In Chocolate and Call Me a Fudgesicle

Lessons in Wine Snobbery