Sam’s Mom

The whole “y/ie” controversy  aside (see previous post), people know me these days as Sam’s Mom.  That’s my name just about everywhere I go — to the park, the Y, the library, the toy store at the mall, and in carpool line at preschool.   Everyone seems to know my new name too without me needing to introduce myself — all of the clerks, the baggers, and anyone in our general vicinity. How so?  Well, I bet they can usually hear us before they even see us.   That’s because I am forever calling out to the rambunctious little dude-let, “Sam, honey, please put that down;” “Sam, please come back here;” “Sam, sssssshhhhhh…”  “C’mon, Sam, we don’t act like that,” and so forth.  

I’ve noticed that whenever I meet other mothers out and about, we never even bother to ask the other’s “real” name.  Let’s face it — it just plain ole doesn’t matter.  Quite frankly it is one less thing to have to try and remember.  This way you get a better bang for your befuddled memory space  — remember the kid’s name and then you automatically have the mother’s name down too!  Score!  In defense of our rudeness though, there is usually not enough time to finish a sentence without constant interruption, let alone engage in the usual niceties followed by civilized people.  In fact, even for my closer mommy friends, I only have a vague idea of what they did Before Baby, usually a one or two sentence conversation months ago. It’s not that I don’t care, but it is just so far down on the list of priorities.  There are many far more pressing issues at hand to discuss:  maintaining harmony in the sandbox despite the shortage of functioning shovels, exchange of potty training advice, antics used to keep your kid awake so he won’t fall asleep in the car for three minutes and ruin his three-hour nap, and, most importantly, the endless lamenting over Body After Baby. 

There is one other name I do often answer to these days — Mommy, spelled with a “y” of course.
LibbY
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