Hello, my name is "Mother."
Please excuse me for a second. I need to find my gingham dress and pinafore, because my four-year-old son has taken to calling me “Mother.”
No longer “Mom” or “Mommy.” I am simply MOTHER.
It all started because we read a chapter of a book together every night, once C is tucked into bed. We started with The Boxcar Children and now we’re working our way through Beverley Cleary’s length Ramona series. Ramona says “Mother,” and he liked the sound of it.
So this is what I hear, 10,000 times a day …
- “I love you, Mother.”
- “I’m really sorry, Mother.”
- “Thank you, Mother!”
- “Oh, Mother!”
It was adorable at first, and now it’s kind of … eerie. It makes him sound like a polite little kid out of the early 1900s, which — although totally up my alley — is unsettling because I don’t want people to think I ASKED him to call me “Mother.”
My dad (as an adult) used to call Grandma “Mother,” so it’s also reminiscent of that. It brings on flashbacks of Scottish accents and the two of them (and my sweet grandpa) arguing over the cheque in restaurants. (“Noooooo, David! Noooooo!”)
Not sure how long this is going to last, but I suspect it’s payback for when I decided (as a 20-something) to call my own mother “Mamsie” after reading it in The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew.
(I still totally call her Mamsie, and now she signs off her texts that way sometimes. I’m sorry, Mom)