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My mom walks faster than she runs. This seems impossible based on the very definition of those two things, but it is true. During a road race, her hybrid style of mixing each means that she is actually resting when she is running. It makes zero sense, but you know what? It works. It didn’t always work. It was maybe five years ago when my mom entered some race in my hometown of East Brunswick, and was literally the last person to finish. Like, the front bumper of the police car trailing the race was nudging her in the butt, the police megaphone yelling, “Please run, miss, so we can all go home.” Then my mom would start running and the police would say, “OK, that’s our bad. Please walk.” Since then my mom has honed her style through extensive training. If there were a movie about my mom perfecting her routine, it would include a 45-minute montage of her run-walking up the Philly monument steps, but instead of jumping up and down with her hands in the air when she reached the t...

I call three women Mom. The first is the one who gave birth to me. Makes sense. And although I call her Mom, she remains mysteriously under the impression that I prefer to call her Mommy, even though I haven’t called her that in approximately 30 years. I still receive voicemail messages like this: “Hi Mike, it’s Mommy. Sorry I missed you. Me and Daddy are on our way to The Grove for dinner … probably for pizza. But Daddy said he might get a hamburger. You know Daddy! Anyway, I’ll try and catch up with you later. Oh, before I forget – Susan McDougal died. I think you played baseball one year with her nephew, Billy. Sad. OK, love you!” I also call my mother-in-law Mom. It’s drastically underrated, the transition from referring to your in-laws as Mr./Mrs. [last name] to Mom and Dad. I distinctly recall as a child being perturbed by watching my own parents execute this societal norm. My dad would call my Mum “Mom” and I’d think “IF NANA WAS HERE SHE’D BE PIIIIISSE...