Called

"Mom!" "Mooooom...." "Mom?" "Mamamamamamama." "Momeeeeeee!" "MOM!"

Someday soon, I'm going to keep a tally of how many times a day I hear my name. It's played on repeat from sun up to sundown, with mini-breaks scattered through naps (when they sleep) and late night hours (again, when they sleep). It's called, whispered, screamed, giggled, yelled, cried, offered. Little voices stalk me in the bathroom, in the laundry room, in my dreams. My name floats out the window, echoes in the hall, chases me down the stairs.

Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.....

I waited and waited and waited for my little babes to first say my name. Delighted in their mastery of it. Swooned at the sound of it in their sweet baby voices. I'm Mom! They said Mom! 

Now, of course, they say Mom all of the time. I'm like the Cher of our house - no other names needed.

I've always loved names.

I love seeing them printed on an invitation, emblazoned across a jersey, stretched across a school supply, perched in my inbox.

I love them for their concreteness, their way of capturing all of the millions of things that make up a person and putting it all down to set syllables and sounds. I love them for their abstraction, their infinite inability to be absolutely defined.

I love them for the magical, intricate way they own us - and we learn to own them.

When it came time to name our children, I luxuriated in the challenge of playing with words, of crafting just the right title for these stories waiting to be born. Strong, classic, meaningful - yet mutable enough to mold to our children's will. We had a heck of a time deciding but found names that seem to fit our kiddos as they grow. We had even more fun naming our pets. (Don't know what that says about us, but we seem to yell the dog's name more than the kids', so at least we picked one we like!)

When I first started teaching, I was startled at the loss of my first name. I wasn't Megan. I was Ms. or Coach. All I heard were those titles, which often felt too advanced, too mature for my stage in life. In that shift, the importance fell to my last name, which I grew to love, as it celebrated who I belonged to.

When I got married, the loss of my last name hit me hard. Now I was Mrs. (which ages you at least 10 years in a high schooler's mind) with a new last name. I loved my husband and was excited to build our life together but I struggled with the loss of my identity. It didn't sound like me, it didn't feel like me. I took some comfort in making my maiden name my middle name, purposefully signing all three names each chance I had. It took some time, but eventually, the more stories I lived with my new name, the more I eased into it.

Nine years later, I'm home. Our last name is our children's last name and I've traded Megan and Mrs. for Mom. Even Jeff calls me Mom, a habit we've fallen into with the kids that sticks even when they're not around.

It too is a name that I had to grow into, one that initially felt odd to my ears, head, and heart - kind of like playing dress up in someone else's clothes. It wasn't one I was born with but rather one I (quite literally) gave birth to. While Megan was a gift from my mom and dad, Mom was bestowed on me by my kids.

In beautifully complicated ways I both own and am owned by all of my names. They are whom I'm called to be.

I love the sound of my name in all of its variations - it's just nice to sometimes not hear it. Thank goodness the dog can't talk...