What's in a Name?

With Primero, I think I’m over the mother thing now. For so long I had hoped he would spontaneously call me “mom” as his adoption date approached. I was so crushed and beyond hurt when it became apparent that he not only would not call me “mom” but he was defensive and adamant about that never being my name from him. (Click here to get the whole story) The issue became so heated that Primero didn’t think he wanted to be adopted because of it. Other than saying “it’s too weird” he never has really explained why the term “mom” can’t apply to both his biological mom and to me. On the flip side and as an off note, Chica Marie has no problem calling everyone mom, go figure. After the excruciating pain from last year’s mom war, I buried the topic never to let it surface again. To Primero I’m my first name, nothing more.

 

Sadly, the issue does not go away so easily. It bubbles back to the surface from time to time bringing the blistering pain along with it. Just a few weekends ago Primero shared a story with me regarding an exchange he had with his cousin, who happens to have my same first name. According to Primero’s story, there was some confusion about which person he was talking about until his cousin finally asked him why he didn’t call me mom. She went on to say more, including some not-so-nice things about Primero’s mom and the conversation ended with Primero changing the subject and feeling poorly about the whole exchange. I’m not sure what he hoped to get out of sharing the story with me, but mostly I just held my breath and listened. That same week Primero was home when Love Bug’s speech therapist came to visit and he called me by my first name in front of her. She was shocked by this and proceeded to reprimand him for not calling me mom. Primero explained it was because he was adopted and she said, “So?” and I wanted to crawl in a hole and hide.

 

Sometimes Love Bug, in an attempt to emulate Primero, calls me by my first name – or, well an approximation of it, since his pronunciation on most words is sort of like listening to someone speak with marbles in their mouth. This upsets me and I refuse to answer him when he does it. But, wait! There’s more! Every single solitary time we have a fight Primero pulls out the “you’re-not-my-mom” card because he knows it hurts me. The last time he did it I flat out told him, “you can keep saying things like that to hurt me, but I’m telling you right now it’s lost its impact so you’re going to have to try harder.” To a certain extent it’s true. The gut-wrenching, searing pain that cut me to the quick and brought stinging tears to my eyes  has subsided. Instead, I’m left with a heavy, grinding, heart-crushing, chronic ache in its place. Rather than clutching my heart in pain, I feel the blow deep in my soul.

 

Last night Primero walked home from his after school program because he left early and didn’t call me to pick him up. There was some drama related to his sister and her friend showing up at the facility which lead to Primero mouthing off to the director and leaving. As if this were not upsetting enough in its own right, Primero included in his story about how the director (who called me last week about a different issue with Primero) said to him, “you’re mother isn’t going to like this” and Primero responded with, “Who? You mean Ashley? She’s my adoptive mother.” He prefaced this part of the story by saying, “And you really aren’t going to like this part.” He’s not wrong, I don’t like that part but I feel there’s no point in getting worked up about it. I am resigned to my fate. The mom train has left the station and I am still standing on the platform. But, rather than trying to run the tracks to catch up or fall to my knees howling in pain, I just stand and watch it chug away. Maybe it’s because Primero doesn’t really know what a true mom is like, maybe it’s because he was older when he was adopted, maybe he’s just stubborn, maybe he doesn’t know how to truly love someone, maybe the title “mom” is too loaded and painful for him, maybe he has his bio mom foisted on a pedestal that no one can touch – I really don’t know. But, I’m not playing the hurt game anymore. I’m not going to fall to pieces because I love him like a son and he loves me like a benevolent neighbor. I can hope and pray that my love will help him to heal, but I have to come to the realization that for Primero I won’t ever truly be his mom, he will always include a qualifier. He thinks it should be enough that the babies call me mom and so I guess I have to content myself with that.

So, what’s in a name? Didn’t Shakespeare presume a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet? But, Shakespeare was wrong. Names are important. If names didn’t mean anything, then why do expectant parents spend hours poring over baby books to find just the right one for their precious baby? If names didn’t matter, why are studies done to which names fare better in college and on job applications? If names didn’t matter, then why aren’t we all John and Jane? Because names do matter. What we are called is a part of who we are, whether is shapes our character or our character shapes the name, the influence is still there. So, why is it so unfathomable that the moniker “mom” has so much meaning tied to it? I was raised to believe calling your parents by their first name was a sign of disrespect. As hard as it is for Primero to over-come his up-bringing, it’s just as hard for me. Calling me by my name instead of mom seems to diminish and devalue our relationship. This, above all, is why it bothers me.