Ma, Mama, Mom, Bruh. Four words, plastered across a sweatshirt that I bought before the boys could read. Now that they can read, let me tell you, it is their favorite sweatshirt. They are obsessed anytime I wear it. Bruh being the pinnacle of hilarity. Every once in a while, it’s all they call me.
My title can change on a daily basis. Lately, our oldest has fallen into a period of referring to me as “mother” and our youngest sticks with the tried and true “mommy.” Whether mother, mommy or even bruh, I was prepared to answer to lots of different names. I’m not sure I was prepared for just how MANY times I was going to be answering to these various names.
This evening for example. Normal evening activities were in full swing. My husband was on dish duty and I was taking the dog outside for a potty break. Our youngest inquired about playing the newest household obsession, “Go Fish.” I let him know that as soon as I was back from taking Spot out, we would most certainly play a rousing game (or 50) of “Go Fish”. I headed outside with the puppy and indoor activities continued sans Mother/Mommy/Bruh. I had been out of the house for probably 45 seconds before I heard a knock on a window. I tried to locate what window someone was knocking from, when I noticed our oldest at one of the dining room windows. He waved, left and I turned my attention back to Spot.
I’d guess not even two minutes later, there was a faint voice calling “mommy!” Or at least I thought there was. It was very reminiscent of when the boys were infants and I would take a shower, think I heard a cry and immediately stick my head outside the shower to try and confirm phantom cry. But alas, this was no phantom cry. It was a very really “MOMMY” that felt similar to the bat signal. Except this one was coming from a small crack in a living room window. You know where you can open windows an inch or two until you hit that security lock? That small of a crack. I saw my youngest leaning down, trying to yell something out to me. I called back in hopes that he would be able to understand that I could not actually hear him. As soon as I said that, the “bat signal” ceased.
My attention once again turned back to Spot and the zoomies that were happening in lieu of a potty break. But not for long. Shortly thereafter, I could hear that same sweet voice calling out to me. This time I located him at the living room window one over from where his last call had come from. Same M.O. He cracked the window up until the security latch stopped him and then called out for my attention. I could not hear what he needed but yelled back that daddy was in the house and could help him if he needed something. He retreated and I was convinced that he had gone to my husband for whatever it was that he was yelling to me outside for when dad was four feet away.
Apparently that was not happening inside the house because it was not long before I heard MOMMY once again. This time, there were no windows cracked. Or even a front door open. Our youngest bounded out of the garage and up the front lawn to discuss the evidently incredibly pressing topic of the moment, “Go Fish”. We discussed the game and I let him know that I would need just a few more minutes before I would be in but promised we would play as soon as I was inside. This appeased him enough to get him to shimmy his way back into the house where “Go Fish” commenced mere minutes later.
A few weeks ago I was on a work trip to Colorado. I tried to connect with the boys at least once a day while I was away. One night, while sitting on my husband’s lap during one of our calls, my youngest asked me if it would be okay for him to download a game on the iPad. Again, he was sitting on his dad’s lap while I was halfway across the country and I was still the one he asked. I politely asked him to ask dad as I could not see the iPad screen nor could I enter the necessary password through the phone.
There are times when the boys say my name so many times in rapid succession that my husband replies in a high-pitched, almost Mrs. Doubtfire-esque voice to remind them that they can also call for dad every once in a while. They are not amused by Mrs. Doubtfire’s appearance. I think she’s hilarious.
I suppose I share these odd little stories of what and how many times my boys refer to me to say that whatever the label – mom, mommy, mother, ma, bruh, it’s the best part of my day. I love that it’s a title I hold and get to answer to. At least for the first 4,000 times. After that, I will admit that there are times the overstimulated part of my brain wants to crack and hide in a corner for just a few minutes.
I’m also astounded sometimes at their ability to walk past dad, who happens to be just next to them and somehow locate me fourteen rooms over. Fourteen is clearly an exaggeration. Our house is not that big, but you get what I’m saying. I think it’s an innate mom radar that kids have built in from day one that allows them to find me like a heat seeking missile. Should you ever find my children walking circles around their father, searching for their “bruh”, while I hide under a table somewhere, please just give me 3.5 minutes before you give up my hiding spot. Know that I love my children to the moon and back, but if I’m not answering their “bat signal,” it’s probably only because it’s been the millionth time they’ve called for me that day.
Too Much Laundry, Not Enough Wine 