A Virus by Any Other Name

When a bunch of random adults start calling me Mom, I know I’m somewhere I don’t want to be — namely, the hospital.

It’s funny because the first time this happened to me was during the birth of our first child. Mom, it’s time to push. Mom, she’s beautiful. Mom, let’s give her her first bath. How sparkly and new this title feels in that moment, and yes — you’re MOM. You can’t hear it enough! And can you believe it? Your husband isn’t some guy with a plain old name anymore. He’s DAD! Magic.

But by the time I was giving birth to my fourth child, I had a different feeling about everyone calling me Mom. That was the very thing three needy people called me hundreds of times daily at home, and excuse me but this delivery was supposed to be my vacation. For months leading up to this birth I’d reasoned that labor seemed a fair trade off for 2ish nights of solo sleep in an institutional setting, with a baby who wouldn’t fool me like his siblings had: he could go to the nursery. He’d be just fine and would suffer no lasting damage while I got some time to myself, luxuriating in my hospital bed eating those delicious and Michelin-worthy staples of hospital menus — ice chips.

Of course my plan was thwarted by this fourth baby who the nurses found to be “shivery” and thought needed the snuggling of his mother. I’d send him to the nursery — the hallowed hall of…