Grasshopper New Media Presents...

Our kids are 21 and 17.  Grown up.  Almost.  Our 21-year-old son still lives at home and attends a local university, and our 17-year-old daughter is a senior in high school.  Last week, I wrote about letting go of them, because we know that in another year they will both be gone from home.

Last Thursday, our son was offered an opportunity to be the head-freelancer for two sections of our local newspaper. He called each of us to share his news, leaving a voice message for me that was filled with the same emotion displayed by the winner of “The Apprentice.”  His first words:  “Hi, Mommy.” (I don’t think The Apprentice would use those words, but…)

I listened to the message, listened to his excitement, felt pride and satisfaction that our son is discovering that he’s a good writer and that the editor believes in him.

Then, I started to laugh. He called me “Mommy.”  He’s 21, and he still uses the word “Mommy.”

Later that evening, as we were eating dinner, we were talking about our son’s opportunity, and I was kidding him about using that term of endearment. Then, I realized—when both of our children are happy (or feeling really bad) about something, they call me “Mommy.”

I think I’ll hold on to that.

I’m including a poem written by our daughter a couple of years ago on Mother’s Day.

Mom, Mama, Mommy, Mother

Support, prayer, just being there;
that’s what my Mom provides.
When my friends are stranded after school,
my Mama gives them rides.
When I was three, I called her Mommy.
(I still do when I’m feeling crummy!)
Sometimes she’s a bother
and I call her Mother.
But I sure wouldn’t want
any other!

by Nancy Swanson

Photo graciously provided by jon.swanson, through a Creative Commons license, some rights reserved