Hey men, do you remember the day it became uncool to call your father Daddy— especially in public?  Oh yes.  If you were over eleven and still called him “Daddy,” you were made fun of in the boys bathroom at school.  (It was at about the same time that “Can I go play with Walt?” turned into “I’m going over to hang-out with Walt.”)  Your father could be referred to as “my Father” and a guy would keep his self-respect intact.  But most of us moved straight to saying  “Dad.”  Some smart alecks might venture into “my Old Man,” but that was dangerous– especially if your “Old Man” got wind of it.  I never tried that.  I never even wanted to.

But all of us, guys and gals alike, have been forced to grapple with what to call that wonderful woman who gave us birth and/or was the one who always made sure our naked butts were diapered.  Most of us first called her Ma Ma, which soon morphed into Mommy.  Later I followed my brother’s lead by calling her Mother for several years, but as soon as I started using the disrespectful two-syllable, Muh-THUR, with a “know-it-all” teenaged-fool inflection, that usage came to a grinding halt.  She definitely knew how to jerk a knot in me when I sounded the least bit sassy.

After a couple of serious knots had been jerked in me, I moved on to just plain “Momma.”  Now, Southern boys say it in a way that sounds more like a grunt than a name.  The emphasis is on the first syllable, MOM–muh, with the last muh barely able to be heard.  Every mother knows how much love there is in being called MOM-muh.  It is dripping with love; it is a term of endearment.  However, we couldn’t call her “Momma” at my grandmother’s house, because grandmother was “Momma Sims” and that was confusing to young children AND to my uncles, who also called their wives Momma.   “Hey Momma, go in yonder and brang me some chicken out’ta ice box.”

Growing up, I shared a bedroom AND A BED with my brother who was five years older.  In fact, we slept in that same bed (not a Queen-size, by the way) until we were both in college and beyond.  My brother owned two-thirds of the bed, and I was relegated to the other third.  As a little kid, I remember waking up in the middle of the night scared, or sick, or with growing pains in my knees– needing help and comfort.  My brother, who is a wonderful doctor today, was not even a little bit comforting in those days.  If I was suffering in the middle of the night, I had to call for outside help.  I remember lying there under the covers dreading the sound I would make when my bellow for help pierced the quiet night.  I knew that the moment I cried out, my brother would whack me and say, “G’ya-lee, Mark!  Shut up! ”  So I would prepare, working up my courage to yell out, counting 1-2-3…..deep breath…pause…..1-2-3….deep breath….pause….1-2-3….deep breath…”MOM-MUH!”  Whack!   My cry echoed down the dark hall to my parents bedroom.  In the same split-second I heard Mom’s feet hit the floor, and felt the wallop from my brother.  It’s just the way it was.  It was the price I had to pay to get comfort in the dead of night.

And then there was Momma’nem.  That, of course, refers to all your kin who are clearly afraid NOT to go to Momma’s house for holidays, birthdays, and other assorted big days.  A good family man would say, “We better go on up to Momma’nem’s and say hi, and have some pie, or they’ll all be mad.”   That’s probably where the trusted maxim originated– “When Momma ain’t happy, ain’t NOBODY happy.”  Honestly, it was always great fun at Momma’nem’s.  Memories were made there, and the food was unbeatable.

And then finally, as we mature and grow, we normally settle down to call her, Mom.  My mother has been in heaven since 1999, and I remember her as “Mom.”  Just Mom.  Mom is enough.  Mom says it all.

“Her children arise and call her blessed…”    Proverbs 31:28