Crap. What if my kid calls me mom? Right now she just babbles like a toothless old woman addicted to blood pressure meds. My pediatrician swears she’s saying “ma, ma, ma…” and that it’s the genesis of “mom.”
I’m not sold.
To me, it sounds more like “blah, blah, blah.” She’s mocking me. I know it. I’ll pick her up, hug her and in my cutest, most loving voice say, “How was daycare? I missed you so much.” Then she’ll stick her tongue out, put her hand in my face and go, “blah, blah, blah…”
What a jerk.
And even if she is muttering “ma, ma, ma” who’s to say that it’s actually “mom” she’s trying to get out? It could be anything—mascara, maternity, machinist, machete, malamar (god, knows my husband and I have destroyed a few boxes of those in her lifetime).
That said, what if he’s right? What if it is mom she’s trying to say? Then what? When she turns 15 I’ll suddenly become, “Bitch Who Ruined My Life.” Unless, of course, I buy her booze and drugs then I’ll be “Coolest Mom Ever,” who ironically really will have ruined her life. Parenting is so hard.
Yes, we’ve spent every waking moment together (and there’s been a lot of those). She’s used my nipples as chew toys. I’ve turkey-basted the snot out of her nose. And lord only knows how many times I’ve inadvertently slapped my hand into a mound of her poop like I’m getting a square on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Yes, we’re in a serious relationship. But do we really need to label it? It’s only been seven months. If we were dating she’d still be, “Some Dude Who Buys Me Dinner.”
Plus, “mom” is so broad. Maybe Grandma is better. Or better yet, Great Grandma. That way everyone will think, “Wow, you look amazing for your age!” Then again, maybe they’ll think I was in the pilot season of 16 and Pregnant and bad decision-making runs in the family.
“Mom” is better.
But there are a million different types of moms and I’m not sure I’m ready to be lumped into the same category as Octomom or worse, Michelle Duggar. Do you think she even knows when she’s giving birth anymore? I bet she wakes up in a puddle of amniotic fluid, shrugs then calls the producers of 19 kids and Counting and says, “Make that 20.”
We need to be more specific when we talk about moms—like Hepatitis A, B, and C, appropriately categorized because they’re all different and one can kill you.
Let’s call that mom “A” for Asshole. She’s the inspiration for grammatically incorrect picket signs. Her life’s story is often featured on the 10 o’clock news and when she has a bad day she serves her family a strychnine tuna casserole with a side of anti-freeze. The good news is that a play date with her could land you a part in a Dateline exclusive…and who doesn’t want to meet Keith Morrison?
Mom “B” is Boobs Out Honest. She tells you everything (even if you don’t want to know) because “it’s natural.” I learned what a mucus plug was from a mom like this. (If you don’t know, don’t ask. And good lord, don’t Google it!) She whips her tits out like she’s at a Motley Crue concert at the first sign of a hungry baby. Meanwhile, her twelve year old is washing his quarter pounder down with her tittie milk.
Mom “C,” Can’t Stop Being a Douchette. She lets her baby scream in your ear at the diner while you’re scarfing down those mozzarella sticks you’ve been craving. She brings her kid to daycare with Polio because not getting your kids vaccinated is all the rage now. She’s often found in gentrified areas, sipping non-fat lattes and pretending she’s not racist. And, of course, she’s usually married to her male counterpart, the douche.
So which mom am I? Hmmm. Maybe I’ll stick with “Bitch Who Ruined My Life.” It’s how my husband knows me. Why complicate it?