He Called Me "Mom"

He called me "Mom." 

It startled me.
I am his mom, but I am not.

I didn't carry him in my womb or change his diapers.

I married his dad in time to wash the oily black t-shirts of a sixteen year old.

He called me "Mom." 

By his choice.

Does he think of me as "Mom?"

I think of him as a nice young adult - my husband's son.

But, mine, too?

Right now my four little boys are a lot of work.

Good, squirrley, loud, busy boys.  

Gifts from the Giver of All Good Gifts.

This one - the adult - doesn't seem like such work.

He is fun.  Conversational. Pleasant.  Grown up.

More fun than oil t-shirts.  More mature.

He called me "Mom."

I almost didn't hear him.

I have four other voices calling me "Mom" and he almost didn't register in my attention.

"Mom" feels like work, responsibility.

How can I be a mom to an adult son? 

But maybe "Mom" is an invitation.

An acceptance.

A gift.