Don’t Call Me Mommy #10yearsaparent

There’s something about being called Mommy that makes me shudder. It’s one of those unexplainable cringe-worthy things like nails on a chalkboard or forks scraping plates or the sound of Kim Kardashian’s voice. Cloying. That’s the best word that I have to describe it.

Every night, I bow my head to thank the parenting gods that I went straight from Mama to Mom and skipped Mommy all together.

My aversion is a mystery. I’m always hearing Mommy, Mommy, Mommy in the world of parenting, and it doesn’t bother me one bit. But when it’s my own precious children, the hairs on my neck bristle and a chill runs down my spine. For me, mommy and whining trigger the same type of visceral response: If you don’t stop it right now, I might lose my shit.

My children know this, and they use it against me. When they are being sarcastic, want something, or trying to win the Most Obnoxious Child of the Year Award, they use Mommy because they know it will get my attention.

It’s helpful to read the following in the most annoying voice ever:

“Sorry about that Mommy, when you have to fart, you have to fart.”

“Mommy, let’s have M&M’s for breakfast.”

“Come on Mommy, just one more minute.”

This technique doesn’t get them what they want. But it does make my jaw clench:

Don’t call me Mommy.

Mommy feels too saccharine, too sticky sweet, too wholesome. It also feels patronizing, and loaded with cultural associations that I can’t seem to shake.

Let’s start with the movie Mommie Dearest which traumatized children in the 80’s. When I close my eyes and think mommy, I see Joan Crawford’s eyebrows. And they are scary.

People don’t take mommy seriously. Mommy is something you put on a novelty onesie, name a Precious Moments figurine, or use to refer to your matching mommy and me outfits.

There’s a certain silliness and weakness to it that makes it easily dismissible.

A mommy gives you a hug and tell you how special you are, but she doesn’t lay down the law like your mother will. She doesn’t set you straight like your mom.

I’m a lot of things, but sweet and wholesome? Not in a million years. I can cuddle and giggle with the best of them, but most of the time I’m less touchy feely and more get your shit together.

I’m simply not mommy material.

If you want to have M&M’s for breakfast which is never totally out of the question, I have one piece of advice:

Don’t call me mommy.

#tenyearsaparent is a weekly blog series about what I’ve learned in my first ten years as a parent. Whether you’re a parent nodding in agreement or shaking your head with disgust or a non-parent using these posts as birth control (the surgeon general wants me to tell you that reading blog posts about parenting is not an effective form of birth control), I’ll be spilling the beans on what parenting is really all about.

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