“Do they really call you ‘Crystal’?” Yes. Yes they do. The boys haven’t always called me that, but they have for a long time.
I’m not exactly sure how it started. I don’t know if it says something about me that I don’t care. They also call their father by his first name.
My name evolution origin started the same as I suppose all moms’ did.
I was “Mommy” at the start. I had to dig in the mental archives to see if that was true. I recalled a time when toddler Daniel was talking to Daddy and said, “How big are the balls on Mommy’s pee-pee?” The home we lived in at the time was small enough for me to hear, but I couldn’t get there in time to immediately intervene. Brian’s response, “They’re really big.” *eyeroll
I don’t know when my name merged from Mommy to Mom, but I know it was for sure my moniker when young Dirty was 13.
A lot of us from work were doing a fundraising color run. You wear white clothes, run around, and people throw colorful chalk at you. It sounded like a thing Dirty and Calvin would like to do so I brought them along. We had a new deputy director who was also participating. My dedication to my agency borders on unhealthy, but still it was my hope that the deputy would think I contributed value to our work.
She and I were chatting while waiting for the race to get underway. Young Dirty excitedly ran up in front of us. He shifted and side-eyed his surroundings. He NEVER has a sense of urgency for my attention like that so Dianna and I paused as he said (and I quote), “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…” he paused to rescan the area,… “There’s a midget over there. He’s got an iphone 6. It looks like he’s holding an ipad mini.” I stood there completely void of ideas to how to respond. He ran off as though he was content in completing some important mission.
I’ll never know if that story would have been less awkward if he’d used that weirdly deep voice to call out “Crystal” repeatedly before delivering such important news; but I do know that it was about that time my label changed.
At the beginning, I think I tried to reclaim my title. But I realized I didn’t care. Also, I’m not in the best position to bitch about it.
My Danny started to go by “Dan” in 5th grade. I literally have to put my brain into hyperdrive to figure out who people are talking about when they say Dan. He’s 22. He’s incredibly independent and successful. I don’t need to go out of my way to cling to the name I called him when he was still wearing diapers. One thing I loved about the name we chose for him is that it had options. And here I am short circuiting when I hear something other than “Danny.”
And then there’s Dirty. He’s been Dirty since he was about 8. I could have squished it, but instead I embraced it and have continued to hold on long after it makes sense. I was in one of those UC Davis social work trainings one time. There was a task that included sharing the names of our children. Some self-righteous instructor said that it was not a good idea for ME to refer to MY child by such a derogatory nickname. That was probably 10 years ago, and I’m still pissed about it. If I remembered who she was, I’d reach out to her and let her know that the kid named Dirty turned out pretty well.
He’d also embraced the name, but as he’s grown he’s tried to create some separation. His girlfriend’s parents knew him before they started dating. They knew the little blonde kid named Dirty. “This nickname isn’t really working in my favor,” said young Derek as he talked about trying to make sure important adults in his life knew he wasn’t a threat to their daughter.
Fair enough.
But when I try to call him by the name we chose, I sound like I’m speaking a foreign tongue. It comes out halting and unnatural, “DAAAARE-eck.”
It’s the same level of strangeness on those rare instances now when I’m harkened with “mom.”
Luckily their needs have changed concurrently with my title. I don’t think I would have liked to wake at 3 in the morning by a 8 yr old at the side of my bed to hear “Crystal, my stomach hur….” (you know what happens next). And likewise it’d be weird to hear heard “Mom. I’m going to work” in a deep ass voice. I know my role and purpose. And I know it doesn’t change just because what I’m called is different. And calls that start with. “Mom. I need to know your 2017 gross adjusted income for my FASFA” remind me that when the chips are down, “mom” is who I am.
Thanks for reading!
Bifocals and Barbells 