In my teens, I hated my childhood nickname: Emee. Pronounced EeeMee. I couldn’t see that it was unique and individual – actually that’s not true. I could see that it was unique and individual and I was desperately trying to blend in with the “normal” girls. Being Eve, with all the Apple, Snake, or Adam jokes, was bad enough.
For a long time nobody called me Emee and oddly enough I missed it. In the last year of her life, as the dementia got a tighter grip on my mother, she would occasionally call me Emee and I’d have to fight tears because I knew it meant that, at that moment, she was present enough to SEE me – and I didn’t want to waste that precious time crying.
Now, as we explore adoption, I think about Emee and know how to reclaim it. Odds are, we’ll be getting a child old enough to remember having a Mom. I’ve decided that I will be Emee, until the child decides on his own to call me Mommy. And I will be Emee to our eventual grandchildren.
It feels right.