It's my own fault. I should have given my children a different name to call me. But when my first babe was an infant, it was such a natural thing to hold him close as his hot tears ran down my neck and croon "It's OK, Mommy's here.'"

As he grew, I encouraged it further. When, in the middle of the night, I’d hear him pull himself in the crib, shaking the crib rail while saying “dadadada,” I’d go in to soothe him back to sleep, and coach him to say Mommy. After all, dadadada was still snoozing in bed.

When my children began to say it on their own, it was the sweetest sound. Mommy.

Eventually, I learned that like the Hawaiian word, aloha, the word Mommy could have many different meanings.

“Mommy!” wailed in the middle of the night means your pre-schooler has strep throat and you’ll need to reconfigure plans for the next day to take her to the doctor.

“Mommy!” exclaimed as your child bounds inside means he has the most exciting proposal for having a sleepover with 10 of his best friends at your house. Tonight.

“Mommy!” whined by your 8 year-old daughter means she’s tired and cranky and really needs a snuggle more than discipline this time.

In the frenzy of our lives, sometimes I hear “Mommy” too much. Four kids all vying for attention, all calling my name at the same time.

I’ve occasionally told my children I was going to change my name from Mommy. And not tell them what the new name is.

Then I relented, and told them I was changing it, but made it one that was difficult to pronounce. Like Onomatopoeia. My daughter, who was in preschool at the time, didn’t appreciate my humor.

But as my children get older and taller, I’m at the disturbing realization that my days of “Mommy” will soon come to an end. At some point, they’ll decide that—if they deign to acknowledge me at all-- calling me “Mommy” just won’t be cool.

I remember that feeling when I was a young teen. I consciously decided to call my mother “Mom” because I thought “Mommy” was too babyish. My sister made that change too, calling our mother the always-flattering “Ma.”

For some reason, it’s okay to always call fathers “Daddy.” Heck, J.R. Ewing did it. But there seems to be an expiration date on the use of “Mommy.”

Maybe I should have taught my kids to call me something that would have a longer shelf life, like “Mama,” or “Mom” from the beginning.

But I’d have missed that sweetness, that innocence of the word that reflects that pure child to parent bond.

When my children make that change, I will be sad because it will be the end of a phase of their childhood. But no matter what they call me, it’s OK. Mommy’s here.

Starting today, Pamela takes over the torch from former featured blogger Beth McNichol on Tuesdays. You can always keep up with Beth at her blog MotherBunker. And she's promised to come back here too.