A mom by any other name

Recently, Asher has taken to calling me Mamma. Levi has followed suit. I don’t know how I became Mamma. I’ve always been Mom, and Gabriella has always been Mommy. How the unborn children will refer to parents of the same gender is a conversation that most opposing-gendered couples do not have upon planning a family. We have to think about these things and co-ordinate properly. Gabriella and I shopped for wedding dresses together so that we wouldn't clash. I mean, a snow-white dress next to antique white? It's simply not done.

Initially, Gabriella wanted to be Ma because that is what she called her mother. As much as I respect her background and for as much as I cared for her mother, I could not bring myself to live with or refer to anyone as Ma. I can’t help but imagine Gloria Bunker in All in the Family whining a high-pitched MAAAAA to Edith in their sepia toned house in Queens that most likely smelled of soup. There cannot be a Ma in my house.

In my mind, Mommy is the ultimate nurturer. Tender love and sweetness ooze out of her with every full-bodied embrace. She makes the chicken soup and kisses the owies (I hate that word. Boo boo isn’t much better. I have found no acceptable alternative that is child-friendly and not completely irritating. I welcome suggestions.) A Mommy cannot find any greater joy in life than that of being someone’s Mommy. I’m not that kind of girl. Not fishing. I’m just telling it like it is. I’m not a nurturer. But even more obviously, Gabriella is. She embodies all that is the Italian mother, and we only need one of those in the house. That’s one of us sorted.

I could have been an Ima-the Hebrew word for mother, but I’d feel like I was putting it on. I’m not Israeli, and I don’t speak Hebrew. It’s my own hang up, I know, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t name a child of mine Joaquin or wear a sari, either. I just couldn't pull it off. Ima was not an option for me. How about Mamma? As in “Just killed a man.” More than images of Freddy Mercury, I see some woman from the Old Country-any Old Country-matronly, stern and definitely not fun because - let's face it, it’s tough living in the Old Country. Can’t do it. My mother was always Mom. It’s what I know and what I’ve adopted for myself.

It took us months to get used to our names. Even when Asher was an infant and unable to speak, Gabriella and I would practice calling each other Mommy and Mom just to get into the habit. Referring to each other that way certainly did not enhance our romantic life. Nothing kills an intimate moment more than your partner whispering, "I love you, Mom" unless you’re into that sort of thing, and that’s your business.

Your kids might end up calling you whatever they please despite best efforts. There was one day when Asher was about 2 that I recall too well. Gabriella and I walked into Asher’s room to get him from his nap, and he pointed to Gabriella and then he pointed to me and dubbed us Big Mommy and Little Mommy. Well, Gabriella was none too pleased. We knew that he was only referring to her height, but when I started to laugh, she shot me a look that said, “Shut your pie hole! And if you know what’s good for you, we’ll never speak of this again.” And I haven’t-until now. But it’s for art’s sake!

And while your kids might cotton on eventually to the names you have assigned yourselves, it’s virtually impossible for your friends and family to get it right. We live in Gayville, U.S.A. There are gay families all over this town, and for every gay family, there’s a different set of names to remember. It’s confusing for everyone-even us gays! Dad and Pappa. Mommy and Ima. Mom and Mommy. Daddy A and Daddy J. And who’s who in each household? It’s virtually impossible to keep them all straight...so to speak. In this particular instance, there is something to be said for being the only gays in the village.

Little Britain: The Only Gay in the Village