My friends have always referred to me as ‘mom.’
Ever since I was a freshman in high school, ‘mom’ has always been a title I have won like a sash. The title was placed upon me by my one friend after I did her science homework in choir class. “You’re such a mom Lila. I love it.” The title has since clung to me like a kola that would never let go and when I tried not to be so ‘mom’ like, I still would be called ‘mom’ even if my friends don’t need me. “Mom I need you to go find me a pen,” “Mom I lost my phone. Can you find it?” “Mom I need advice on my own mom,”, “Mom I’m hungry. I need a snack.” (I HEAR THIS ONE A LOT) I was constantly treated like a second mom, a step-mom, a mom that isn’t really the mom you want to be around all the time, a mom you run to when the other mom wasn’t around, a mom that you only needed if it was desperate, I was that mom.
But the title mom I wear like a pageant girl sprawled across my chest does come with a ton of perks. The biggest perk I have noticed is the idea of being needed. And as a seventeen-year-old girl, being needed is our kryptonite. I need to be called mom, mamma, Madre by my friends for their own and mine security. My friend, calls me mom when she’s nervous and can’t decide on what she wants. One day I was walking near her own mom and when she said “mom I need you”, we both responded. She needed a mom. And it didn’t have to be her own. Moms are like the stomach flu, once you have it once, it sticks to you.
But my very best friend has always naturally called me mom. I met her while we both did spring track and my motherly instincts clicked with her. The moment our souls connected like a goggley eye to a rock, I knew I would ‘raise’ her while we were at school. She called me mom even if I wasn’t acting like a mom, she asked me for permission to go out with her friends before even asking her own mom, she asked me about boys, about life, about the world. And in return, I gave her the world. I taught her about life, the world, the art of contouring and it then dawned on me that she was becoming my part of my mom world. Every day in school, she would place a new title of mom on me based on how I dressed. (My favorite on was being called a Coachella Mom). She came to me when we both were falling at our knees with little to no hope and when we were on top of the world, we celebrated. Her mom loved that I took care of her daughter while we were in school. She loved how close we were, how just a simple eye roll lead to us knowing we needed to talk, how we laughed when no one was talking. I loved her mom.
Recently, we both faced big challenges that no one are age could even handle.
The moment we told each other, I knew I had to become a better mom. But then I realized, what is a better mom? At seventeen, I didn’t even understand how I was a mom to my friends. I mean I did act a little more mature and I didn’t act like a typical teenager, but I still have no idea why the title mom was given to me. So I then decided I needed to step up more as a mom and less of a friend.
So I decided to act like I’m actually seventeen and invited to her to go out. We got frozen yogurt and saw everyone and their mother at Cups and decided to roll the windows down and talk about everyone else and their mother. We sat in my car and the conversation we held was deeper than the ocean. It moved fluently like the waves lightly sprinkling on the beach, the words were light and frothy like the foam on the top of the water. We moved our adventure to Target and bought lipsticks and water we didn’t need. We sat back into the car and sang “Father Stretch my Hands” by Kanye West at the top of our lungs. Our hands were waving in the air and we danced all around the car. The night felt electric and for the first time, we actually both we’re out ages. There are too many reasons why we shouldn’t be faced with decisions at our age but they aren’t enough reasons for me to stop being her mom.
We talked until the sun set and when the sky turned to the shade of purple and pink only artist are able to shade into sketch books, I saw in that sunset the beginning of our new friendship. I told her that whatever she needed, I was there. A ride to school, a pair of socks, a new bra, a new shade of lipstick, let me get it.
The title mom I wear, I wear it proudly. It hangs perfectly across my body. The cursive writing of mom along a pink backlash of the sash makes me all special inside. And as I stand on the stage along with my mom and everyone else’s mom, I feel honored to be called mom.
It’s the best title to wear.
