You’ve probably encountered children in movies or TV shows who refer to their parents by their first names. Think of the earthy, free-spirited kid whose parents prefer “Rainbow” and “Arugula” over Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or the defiant child who raises an eyebrow and says, “I don’t think so, Steve,” when told to listen to his dad. This unconventional approach to parenting often serves as comedic fodder, hinting at parents who are overly lenient or lack authority.
Interestingly, this trope has been around for a while; in C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, he portrays the pretentious Eustace Scrubb as “the sort of boy who calls his parents Harold and Alberta rather than Father and Mother.”
I always found these jokes peculiar since I grew up calling my parents by their names and didn’t consider myself abnormal. My parents never intended for me to do this; they assumed I would naturally transition from “Mommy” and “Daddy” to “Mom” and “Dad,” just like most kids. Instead, I picked up their names by mimicking how they talked to each other, and they simply accepted it.
As I entered school, I noticed I was different from my peers. During playdates or birthday parties, I’d often be asked, “Why do you call your parents by their names? Why not Mom and Dad?” Some kids seemed almost awestruck or intimidated, as if they couldn’t fathom such audacity. I was even asked if they were my real parents.
For the first time, I had to defend what felt completely normal to me. “Because it’s his name! Because it’s her name!” I argued. How could using their names be disrespectful? If anything, I thought, it was the other kids who should explain why they needed formal titles. Why treat family like a military unit with ranks?
So, when I found myself justifying my choice, I inadvertently came off like the TV characters I had long dismissed as weirdos. But my reasons were far simpler: it was just how things were.
Though I wasn’t embarrassed, as I grew older, I became more hesitant to share this aspect of my life. In sixth grade, I wrote memoirs that were largely true but referred to my parents as Mom and Dad instead. Explaining myself felt like a hassle.
Then came seventh grade and the moment of revelation: we read To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Atticus Finch, the quintessential father figure in literature, was called by his children by his first name! This felt like a small victory for me. The Finch family, while unconventional, were fundamentally good people—far from being brats or oddballs.
In class, my peers asked questions similar to those I’d faced for years: “Why do they call him Atticus? Is he really their father?” The teacher offered suggestions, hinting that the children’s lack of a mother shaped their upbringing, or perhaps Atticus’s views on equality influenced their naming convention. All valid points, but ultimately, it was simply how their family functioned, just as mine did.
Fast forward to when I had kids of my own. I didn’t set out with any specific agenda for them to call me by my name. While I had a lifetime of experiences that validated this practice, I sometimes thought it might be simpler if they called me “Mama” or “Dada.” As babies, they did use those terms, but as they grew, they naturally transitioned to my name. I noticed that my name, Danny, closely resembles “Dada,” facilitating a smooth evolution from Dada to Dah-dee and beyond.
My wife, whom they also began addressing by her name, and I jokingly wondered if this tendency was somehow in my genes. Ultimately, it seems that, without pushing one way or the other, our children preferred to call us by the names we used for each other. In the end, there’s no grand explanation; it’s just how our family operates.
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Summary:
The author recounts their experience of calling their parents by their first names and reflects on the perceptions of others regarding this practice. As a child, they faced questions and sometimes defensiveness about their naming choice, yet it felt entirely natural to them. This continued into adulthood when they had children of their own, who also began to call them by their names without any prompting. Ultimately, the author concludes that naming conventions in families can be unique and don’t necessarily follow societal norms, highlighting how personal preferences shape family dynamics.