I never realized before how extremely painful the word “Mom” can be. Sometimes the sound of the word sends a jolt right through my nether regions and pings my heart untilound a little harsh? Lemme take you back. I have 3 beautiful miracle children where our prayers were finally answered and we were so extremely blessed. We have a gorgeous 12-year old, and handsome/beautiful 10 year-old twins. Years before they were born, I yearned to hear the word “Mommy.” That was my one goal, my dream, and was chronically on my Christmas list year after year. So, fast forward to present time: My newly anointed 12-year old middle school socialite diva has decided to start calling me….”Mom.” WTF! Why does it make me so crazy! Why can’t I just go with the flow and roll with the times? Because I can’t! Every single time she says it, I cringe. I cringe and I pray that she just hiccuped, or that she had a brain fart or a stutter and she is on the verge of finishing this very short word to “Mom-MY.” MY NAME IS MOMMY, NOT MOM!!!!
I can’t handle it. I thought I was good – I thought I was a master of my own life. But, you can’t control what your kids decide to do. You can never control the constant changes that come along with your children’s growth and busy social agendas. You can’t prepare yourself for the day that your daughter comes home from middle school and says “Mom, can I have some yogurt?” GURL! Who the hell you speaking to? How dare you come at me with such obscene vulgarities and vagrant disrespect! Go to your damn room until you have decided to change your life, you life ruiner! You big meanie! Gasp.
We go shopping, and my daughter is suddenly very cognizant of her peers. “Mom, can we go in Claire’s?” Me: “Yes, honey, MOMMY will take you wherever you want to, snookie pookie.” “Mom! STOP!” Every single time she uses that moniker, it goes like this: “Mom?” Me “MY. MO-MMY.” Her: “STOP!” And the vicious circle just keeps continuing until one day I will wear her down and she becomes a fragmented, shattered version of her tween self. Because that’s what I want, and the goal that I’m after? Gah! I just want to be called my proper title! I’m not ready; I can’t; I won’t!!!
People think I am a lunatic. People think I am overreacting and being quasi-ridiculous. They don’t feel the knife that gets twisted into their abdomen every time a certain 3 letter word is uttered. You don’t know the pain! You don’t know when your identity has been compromised and your title has been shortened to merely satisfy the happiness of some RBF having tween peers! I will not be called MOM just to make your emo friends happy!
I won’t stop fighting. It’s been months now and it still gives me the prickly shitters when I hear the forbidden term. Change can happen, but you can’t make me like it. You can’t force me to answer to something that I don’t want to be called! Why not just change my name to ASS! Why not just change my name to SFB? (Shit for brains) or HAG! Because you’re breaking my heart, sister! You’re slowly pushing me into my permanent grave of death, and all you care about is buying more leggings at Hollister!
Here’s the deal: I sort of feel like if I still cut your meat, pick the underwear off of your floor that you’re unable to transport to the hamper, help you remember your school lunches, still give you liquid ibuprofen because you’re my baby and you don’t do pills yet, want to sleep in my bed all the time, still sneak in my bed in the middle of the night, and PAY FOR EVERYTHING YOU EVER DO EVERY SINGLE DAY, then I still deserve to be called MOMMY. I deserve this!
Like, seriously. I don’t ask for much. I do EVERYTHING for you. Including making bi-weekly cricket runs for the bearded dragon that you just HAD to have for Christmas. And I actually touch bearded dragons now! I don’t understand why this terminology makes you suddenly uncool, and how it came about. I would love to know the origination. “Oh my GAWD, Becky. I just heard Gwenyth call her Mother ‘MOM-MAY. Can you imagine being friends with someone who loves their parents? EEEEW! Let’s not talk to her anymore. Having a healthy and loving relationship with your mother is so not FLEEK!”
And that must be how it started. But, this is not going to be how it ends. I’ve worked too hard – trained too long for this MOMMY marathon, and I’m not letting Bougie Becky stand in the way of my long deserved namesake. Becky can suck it. Becky can sign up for some therapy sessions while me and my family are laughing, and acting quasi-inappropriate, and having much more fun and making many more sarcastic jokes and being WAY more cool and fun to hang out with than she will ever be.
Go home, Becky. Your mommy misses you.