Emily used to call me different variations of “Mom.” Now she calls me “Amber.”
I guess being around extended family members confused her. Because other people didn’t call me “Mom, Momma, or Mommy,” she didn’t understand why she should.
Or so I’ve concluded.
Whatever the reason, I really miss being called Mom, Momma, and even Mommy. For me, there is something innocent about my babies calling me Mom; thus, when she stopped calling me that name, preferring to use my first given name, I felt as if she went from age 2 to 20.
I still find value in my kids growing older, avoiding mourning as they age. However, I am also fighting tears as I observe them moving rapidly through stages: when I hear Andrew speak in complete sentences (e.g. “I want shoes, Mommy”) rather than repeating vowels and syllables (like “baba”); when I look at Emily and realize she no longer has a baby face; when Andrew refuses to be held because he is busy exploring; and when Emily states, “I do it by myself” for different activities rather than allowing me to help her. I am grateful that my kids are growing independent. They will hopefully learn lessons and gain strength far before I did. Yet, each day they drift further and further away from babyhood, I am reminded that I don’t have another growing in my tummy soon to enter the world in all her/his newborn goodness. Instead, I recognize that my time for having children might be over. Sure, I could try again, but after 3 straight miscarriages, I know my risks are much greater for enduring yet another loss.
As cute as being called “Amber” was the first 20 or so times, I find myself desperately requesting Emily to call me mommy again.
Is it wrong to offer a treat each time she says “Mom” instead of “Amber?” I think I might resort to that next.
Remember when I said I don’t want to talk about my miscarriage? I guess I’m ready.