Should I Let My Nephew Call Me Mom? Practical Tips for Kinship Caregivers
The cheerio crumbs were stuck in the seam of my sister’s vinyl tablecloth when it happened. I was wiping up the spill he’d made reaching for the strawberry jam, sponge in one hand, when he looked up from his blue dinosaur bowl and said, “Mom, can I have more milk?” I froze mid-wipe. The crumb I’d been chasing fell back into the seam, and for a second I couldn’t remember how to speak. It had been coming for a while, of course—first “Aunt Lila Mom” for a couple of weeks, then dropping the “Aunt” entirely three days prior. I’d just convinced myself it was a fluke until that moment.
My sister Kate checked into a rehab facility for opioid addiction eight months ago, after CPS stepped in when she overdosed at a friend’s house. I moved into her small ranch to take care of Jax, who was three and a half then, turning four last month. We don’t know what’s going to happen long term yet; her next court hearing is three months away, and she’s been hitting all her milestones in treatment, so we’re all hoping she can get full custody back. That means I’ve been walking this weird line for months: I do all the daily caregiving work, but I’m not his mom. At least not officially, and maybe not ever.
When he asked for more milk that morning, my first instinct was to blurt out “I’m not mom, I’m Aunt Lila.” I even opened my mouth to say it. But something stopped me. I didn’t want to make him cry, or make him feel like he’d done something wrong. I just poured the milk, nodded, and sat back down to finish my coffee. After he ran off to play with his blocks in the living room, I texted his case manager Mara, the one from the county who checks in every two weeks. I said “Jax just called me mom. Do I correct him?” She called me back during his nap an hour later.
She didn’t give me some big fancy speech. She said first off, kids don’t do this to replace their parent. They do it because they need a name for the person who shows up for all the small, constant care. Jax knows Kate is his mom, she said. He talks about her all the time, right? I said yeah, he does. She said kids don’t mix up roles the way adults do. For adults, “mom” is a fixed label. For a four year old, “mom” is the person who tucks you in when you’re scared, who fixes your scraped knee, who remembers you don’t like mustard on your hot dog. If that’s you right now, that’s what he’s going to call you.
She gave me three concrete things to do, instead of panicking or correcting. First, don’t ever correct him in front of other people. Making a big deal out of it just shames him for needing to feel safe, which is the opposite of what you want. Second, if you need to clarify for other people, do it gently, without pulling Jax into the middle. Like, if someone at the grocery store asks, just say “I’m his aunt, I’m taking care of him right now while his mom gets better.” You don’t have to argue about the name he uses. Third, keep Kate present in every single day, so there’s never any confusion about who his mom is. That part I was already doing, but it helped to hear it confirmed. We have photos of Kate on the fridge and by his bed. Every night we watch the 30 second video she sends from rehab, where she waves and tells him she loves him. We do chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday, just like she always did. We save every drawing he makes for her to open when she gets home.
Two weeks after that breakfast, we went to Jax’s preschool parent-teacher conference. When we walked in, Jax grabbed my hand and told his teacher “My mom came today.” His teacher looked at me, eyebrows up, and I just smiled and said “I’m Lila, his aunt. I’m his primary caregiver right now.” No big explanation, no correction of Jax. After the conference, we stopped for ice cream on the way home, like he’d been promised. Sitting on the bench outside the shop, I said to him, slow and soft, “You know your mom is Kate, right? I’m your Aunt Lila, and I love you more than anything, okay?” He licked his vanilla cone, got sprinkles all over his chin, and said “Yeah, I know. Can we go swing at the park now?” That was it. No big emotional moment, no confusion. He just knew.
I spent so many weeks worrying that letting him call me mom was a betrayal to Kate. That I was overstepping, that I was trying to take her place. What I’ve realized is that it’s not about me, or about Kate, not really. It’s about what Jax needs right now, to feel safe in a really messy, scary situation that a four year old shouldn’t have to go through. If calling me mom makes his world feel a little more steady, that’s a small thing I can give him.
I’ve talked to a couple other kinship caregivers since this happened, and a lot of them have had the same question. The biggest thing I tell them is that you don’t have to have a hard, fixed answer right away. You can take it day by day. If your kid calls you mom, and it feels wrong to you, you can say something gentle like “I’m your aunt, but you can call me mom if that feels good for you right now.” You don’t have to shame them, and you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not. Just meet them where they are.
We still don’t know what the future holds. If Kate stays clean and gets Jax back in three months, that’s the best possible outcome, and I’ll be the first one cheering. If things don’t go that way, we’ll start the adoption process, and one day I’ll be his mom officially, name and all. Right now, though, things are messy, and that’s okay. Some days he calls me Aunt Lila, some days he calls me mom. I don’t correct him anymore. Last night, he fell asleep on the couch halfway through Cars, and I carried him to bed, and he mumbled “good night mom” into my shoulder. I kissed his head, pulled the dinosaur blanket up to his chin, and turned off the light. It’s not neat, it’s not perfect, but it’s where we are right now. And that’s enough for me.
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