Can I call you, “Mom”?

When I was in second grade, a new family moved in across the street. They had a daughter who was the same age as me. We started jumping rope together in our driveways. Then playing board games together. Before we knew it, we were best friends. We were on the swim team together. We were in band and chorus together, too.

More often than not, I went over to her house. She had more intact board games than me. I was the youngest of 4 and my next oldest siblings were 4 years older, so by the time I was old enough to play our board games, most of them had pieces missing. You can’t really play “Operation” unless the bones are there, you know? (Although we did have one super incredible board game called “Bonkers.” If you’re reading this and also remember this game, please let me know.) At some point, I don’t remember when, I asked her mom, “can I call you ‘Mom’?” And she said yes.

Thinking back on this now, I realize how messed up that was. I am a mother. I know in the depths of my soul how special the bond I have with my children is. Sure, I have friends with children that I love, I am an aunt and I love my siblings’ kids, but it’s not the same. How could it be? I find it curious then, that 8? 9? 10? year old me would want to put that label on someone other than my own mother. Why did I do that? Was it my way of saying, “you’re a cool mom, I like you,” or was it more of a “I wish you were my mom, but you’re not, but I’m gonna call you mom anyway. Please don’t reject me!”

Now that I understand how special the bond is with my own children, I am almost ashamed of my younger self. It feels like a betrayal. Almost. See, my own (adopted) mother wasn’t very warm, loving, or nurturing in the stereotypical way. She never said, “I love you,” at least not until I was in college (the why of that is a whole other story). She wasn’t a hugger or a cuddly person. I can’t remember hearing her laugh or tell jokes, like maybe ever. My main memories from that time are mostly of her being unhappy. Sure, raising 4 children is a lot, but it seemed especially difficult for her. She yelled a lot, spanked us when we misbehaved, and drank (a lot).

Given all of that, I think I can understand where young me was coming from. I was looking for a stable, nurturing maternal presence that I felt more strongly at my friend’s house than I did at home. With other friends, too, I preferred being at their homes to my own. Most sleepovers and Friday night hang outs were at their homes, rarely my own. And I formed close bonds with my friends’ moms, too. It was sort of like trying to re-adopt myself into another family.

I also wonder now about my friend’s mom. What would I feel like if my kid’s friend made that same request to me? Would I be flattered or concerned? Would I say, “yes” or “no?” A friend of mine, a mother of two, has had this very thing happen with her kids’ friends, more than one of their friends, in fact. So maybe my calling my friend’s mom, “mom” isn’t all that unusual, maybe it isn’t the big deal I think it is. I asked my friend how she felt about these other kids calling her, “mom.” “It’s definitely weird,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s because their [the other kids] moms don’t love them.”

I know my mother loved me. I do. It didn’t always feel like it, and it often felt conditional. But at the same time, I know she did – in the way she was capable of at the time. Now that she’s gone, it raises more questions in my mind (and heart). What does it mean to feel “mothered?” And, do I even need a mother now?

Personal Essay by Jill Mann (she/her/hers) | Connect on Instagram