You’ve probably encountered kids in movies or on TV who refer to their parents by their first names. Think of the free-spirited child munching on organic snacks, whose parents prefer to be called “Sunshine” and “Clover,” or the defiant kid who raises an eyebrow and says, “I don’t think so, Brian,” in response to his dad. Such scenarios often serve as comedic punchlines, suggesting that the parents are either overly lenient or just plain eccentric.
Interestingly, this trope isn’t new. C.S. Lewis, in his Chronicles of Narnia, portrays the insufferable Eustace Scrubb as “the kind of boy who calls his parents Harold and Alberta instead of Father and Mother.”
However, I found these jokes peculiar because, unlike the typical portrayal of a rebellious child, I used my parents’ first names from an early age. My parents didn’t intentionally set out for this to happen; they simply didn’t emphasize traditional titles. I picked up their first names by mimicking how they interacted with each other. Instead of correcting me, they accepted it.
As I grew older, I noticed this distinction compared to my peers. During playdates or birthday parties, kids would ask, “Why do you call your parents by their names? Why not Mom and Dad?” Some even seemed fearful, as if addressing parents by their names was a sign of utter disrespect. Others questioned if they were my real parents.
I often found myself defending this practice, which felt completely natural to me. “It’s his name! It’s her name!” I would argue. It seemed odd to me that others felt the need to use formal titles. Why should family members be ranked like a military unit? I believed it was fairer and more equal for everyone to use their names.
Yet, when pressed to explain myself, I felt like I was echoing the outlandish characters on TV, even though my reasons were much simpler: I just liked calling my parents by their names.
Even though I wasn’t ashamed, I grew hesitant to share this aspect of my life. In sixth grade, when we worked on memoirs, I often substituted “Mom” and “Dad” for my parents’ actual names. It was simply easier than having to explain.
Then came seventh grade, a turning point when we read To Kill a Mockingbird. The character Atticus Finch, an ideal father figure, was called by his first name by his children. It felt validating to see a family dynamic similar to mine represented in literature. The Finches were good people, not strange or disrespectful, and I resonated with their familial bond.
As I became a parent myself, I didn’t set any explicit rules regarding what my kids should call me. Initially, they called me “Dada” as they learned to speak, which naturally transitioned to my name. My kids also began referring to their mother by her name, Wendy. Despite our attempts to model “Mommy” and “Daddy,” they were well aware of how we addressed each other.
How do parents encourage their kids to use titles like Mom or Dad? Should they scold them when they first utter their names? Is that fear of addressing parents by their names what leads to the reluctance in many families?
My children seemed inclined to refer to us by our first names without any pushing from me. I can’t help but wonder if I subtly encouraged this behavior. My wife and I joke that it must be in my genes. Ultimately, just like in my seventh-grade English class, there’s no real explanation—it’s simply how it is in our family.
For more insights on home insemination and related topics, you can check out this excellent resource.
Summary
In this article, the author shares their unique experience of calling their parents by their first names, a practice that began in childhood and continued into their own parenting. They reflect on societal norms surrounding parental titles and how it felt to be different from peers. The author finds solace in literature, specifically in To Kill a Mockingbird, where a similar family dynamic is portrayed. As a parent, they observe their own children following suit without any explicit direction, leading to the conclusion that this is simply how their family operates.