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Some moments in motherhood hit you like a truck.
Yesterday, my four-year-old—my baby, my sweet, snuggly, little shadow—looked me dead in the eye and called me Ella.
Not Mama, not Mommy, not even the sing-songy “Mooooom” that he sometimes whines when I tell him no more snacks.
Just Ella. Like I was some lady on the street.
I laughed at first because—honestly? It was funny. I mean, the confidence! The way he just dropped my name like we were two grown adults negotiating dinner plans.
But then, somewhere deep in my chest, I felt this strange little ache. Like something was slipping away.
Am I Just Ella Now?
I know, I know. He’s four. He’s testing things.
Maybe he heard someone else call me by my name and thought, Hey, I’ll try that too! It’s developmentally normal. No big deal.
And yet… it felt like a big deal. Because being called “Mama” is more than just a name.
It’s an identity.
It’s a role I stepped into the second I held him in my arms, the name that made every sleepless night, every meltdown, every crayon-on-the-wall moment worth it.
I’ve been called a lot of things in my life—artist, friend, daughter, weirdo (thanks, middle school), but Mama is the one I cherish most.
And now my tiny human, the one who made me a mother, is already experimenting with the idea that I could be someone else.
The Fear Beneath the Name
I think what rattled me the most wasn’t the name itself, but what it symbolized.
That inevitable, bittersweet truth of motherhood: we are constantly being let go of.
From the moment they take their first steps away from us, to the day they don’t reach for our hand anymore,
to the time they start asserting their independence with little things like, I don’t know, calling us by our first freaking name—
it’s all part of this slow, beautiful, heartbreaking process of them becoming their own person.
And isn’t that what we want?
To raise confident, independent kids who know their own minds? Of course.
But man, sometimes I just want to freeze time and keep him little for just a little bit longer.
A Reminder That He’s Watching Me
Later that night, after my mini identity crisis, I started wondering why he even called me by my first name in the first place.
And then it hit me—he’s been hearing me say it. When I introduce myself to new people. When I take a phone call. When I sign his preschool forms.
To him, I am Mama, yes.
But I’m also Ella, a person with a name and an identity outside of motherhood.
And maybe, just maybe, this was his way of reminding me that I’m still me, too.
Because if I’m being totally honest?
Sometimes, in the mess and magic of raising a little human, I forget that.
I forget that before I was Mama, I was an artist, a dreamer, a person with her own passions and quirks and late-night journal scribbles.
Maybe he wasn’t just playing around—maybe he was reflecting something back to me.
Reclaiming “Mama”
After my moment of existential crisis, I knelt down and said, “Hey, buddy, I love my name.
But when you call me ‘Mama,’ it makes my heart feel really happy.”
He looked at me, smiled, and said, “Okay, Mama.”
And just like that, I could breathe again.
I know one day, he might call me Mom instead of Mama. And then, eventually, maybe Mom will turn into texts that just say “Hey” with no greeting at all. (Why do teens do that?!)
But for now, I’ll soak up every single Mama I get.
Because this stage? It’s already slipping through my fingers, and I’m just not ready to be just Ella quite yet.
