One of my standing rules is that the kids don’t get to call me “mom”. If they do, I get to call them by other (not-so-flattering) names. Recently, this rule sort of turned into a game. I’m okay with that. I mean, games are kind of my thing.
Last week, however, we were in a restaurant and things had gotten out of hand. N wasn’t calling me anything but “Mommy” despite my most creative namecalling in return. When that little guy digs his heels in, he’s pretty immovable, and I was worried that I was destined to a life of being called “mommy.”
Then their mommy saved me: “Boys, it’s time to go wash up for dinner.”
Both boys hate going to the bathroom with their mom. They understand that they’re boys and only really little boys go in the ladies room. They view going to the ladies room as a personal insult.
I looked at my youngest son. “That’s right! Time to go? Who are you going to go with? Are you going to go with Mommy?”
“No, No, No!” He shouted. “No!”
His older brother helped out. “I’m going with Daddy. You go with Mommy!”
“No, No! I’m going with – with ” he looked at me, saw my big grin, and then collapsed. “With Daddy,” he said happily. “I’m going with daddy.”
“Not Mommy?” I asked.
“No, I want to go with you, Daddy.”
Phew. Crisis averted.