When I was first asked to join the Mommybloggers at BlogHer ’05, I never thought about the name “mommyblogger.” I was a mom. I blog. It never occurred to me that I should ponder and think hard on the name. It was just the session name. And, really, what power does a name have until you give it power?

As a young girl around 5 or 6 years old, I was a huge fan of Little House on the Prairie. (What? It was way cool back then!) I remember so vividly standing before my parents one night after getting my hour fill of life in Walnut Grove. “From now on, I am going to call you Ma and Pa,” I declared defiantly. I struck the perfect pose: hands on my hips, little chin stuck proudly in the air, swiftly blowing the hair from my eyes that had fallen out of my crooked ponytail.

“You are?” Mom asked. “How long are we doing this?”

“Until forever. Or until I forget.” (I think it lasted about a week. At most.)

I was probably 8 or 9 when I realized that I was a big girl and that big girls say “Mom” and not “Mommy”. I broke it to her as gently as I could one morning on the way to school.

“I think I should call you Mom now. I mean, I am almost 10. And that is practically a teenager. So, I just wanted to tell you that. Umm, okay, so…uhhh..it’s ‘Mom’ now.”

Mom smiled at me and leaned over a little bit to whisper to me. “But maybe, if we are all alone, you could sometimes call me Mommy?”

After thinking on it, I agreed that only if we were alone.

With teen years came hormones and angst (as most teen years are apt to bring with them). And of course, another name change. Mommy/Ma/Mom became “Mothhheerrrrrrrrr!” [Insert same pose as the 5 year old with hands defiantly on hips and chin stuck in the air.] It really is only effective coming from the grating voice of an angst-y teen, but you get the idea. And honestly, I had so much fun with my Mom that she did not often get “Motthhhhherrrrrrrr.” It was usually only when she disagreed with what was so obviously my correct opinion on something (as opposed to her so obviously incorrect opinion.) She was just Mom.

As I grew older and life became harder, I will admit to the occasional slip back to “Mommy.” In fact, she was the first person I called when I found out Jacob had died and I didn’t miss a beat. The instant I heard her voice, I burst into tears and cried out “Mommy, I need you.” Twenty-one years old and I never gave it a second thought. I needed her just as much as that little girl who first called her “Mommy” did.

In my Mom’s last days, a name didn’t matter. The power that was behind it is what mattered. When we were alone I stayed true to my promise from all those years ago. As I laid my head beside hers on her pillow or when I held her hand and pressed it to my face, it was not the name “Mommy” that made us both cry. It was the power behind it. The power I gave it. The power she received from it.

Don’t think for an instance when the grief I feel now overwhelms me that I am wishing for my Mom or my Ma or my Motthhhheerrrrr. I want my Mommy. And all that it entails.

So really, what is in a name? Nothing. Until you give it power and meaning. Only then will it make a difference.