Once upon a time, in a land littered with Goldfish crumbs and LEGO landmines, a tiny human looked up at you with sticky fingers and the purest of eyes and said, “Mama.”

Your heart exploded. Birds sang. The clouds parted. The heavens whispered, “She hath become Mother.”

That sweet title, Mama, was everything. It was soft. It was sacred. Even if it was usually screamed at 3 a.m. from a crib — it was yours. You wore it like a crown, even if it came with spit-up and the inability to pee alone.

Then came the upgrade: Mommy. Ah, the golden years. You were Mommy the Magnificent, Queen of Snacks, Fixer of Ouchies and Broken Toys, and the leading lady in every crayon masterpiece. You were invited to tea parties, dance recitals in the living room, invitations to watch “Frozen” for the eleventy billionth time, and long, meandering conversations about why the moon doesn’t fall down while you tried to figure out when LEGOs got so dang complicated.

But time marched on, and with it came Mom.

Just… Mom.

Still important, still loved, but now mostly called upon when someone needs a ride, money, or help locating the laundry basket (which is always in the same place it’s been since 2018). You are now a background character in the sitcom of their lives, occasionally asked to appear on camera for cameos such as ‘Where’s my hoodie?’ and ‘What’s for dinner?’ or ‘Have you seen my phone and/or charger?’

And then — oh, then — you reach the final form:

“Bruh.”

Yes, your beloved child, whom you carried for 40 weeks, who you had to teach how to use a spoon and a potty, now addresses you as bruh. Sometimes it’s “bruhhhh,” sometimes it’s “bruh?” and occasionally it’s just a heavy sigh that feels like “bruh.”

This is often coupled with them calling you cringe, or, if you are having a really good day — based.

But don’t be fooled — this is not disrespect. No, no. This is a high honor. You’ve transcended the maternal realm and entered the elite circle of those deemed worthy of ironic affection. “Bruh” means you’re chill (or at least tolerated today). You’ve made it to the top tier of casual relatability.

So, this Mother’s Day, whether you’re still basking in the sleepless glory of “Mama,” reigning supreme as “Mommy,” navigating the logistical labyrinth of “Mom,” or simply being “Bruh,” take a moment to celebrate your journey. You’re not alone in this, and your experiences are shared by many.

You’ve earned every title, every eye roll, every burnt pancake breakfast in bed.

You are the constant, the chaos coordinator, the emotional support human — and no matter what they call you, they wouldn’t survive a day without you. Your challenges are real (even if that challenge is making a Starbucks run alone before they catch you on Life360), and your efforts are truly appreciated.

Happy Mother’s Day, bruh. May you never be sus, your dinners always slap, and may you never fully understand chicken jockey, 6-7, or bombardiro crocodillo…