After months of adamantly refusing to say “mama,” Aitch suddenly came out with a clear, perfectly articulated “Mommy.” It’s one of his best words, an early breakthrough from infantile babble to true human speech, and he uses it frequently and delightedly.

The trouble is that he calls both of us “Mommy.”

Whom do you think this embarrasses more–me or Husband? Me, already insecure about whether Aitch has accepted me as his “real mom,” or Husband, who has to endure being greeted as “Mommy!” across a crowded playground? We’re not really sure how to handle this turn of events. We’ve tried ignoring it, but the double “mommy” persists. We’ve tried correcting it, admonishing, “Daddy!” when Aitch uses the wrong moniker, but he simply repeats, “Mommy,” as though correcting us. We’ve tried “natural consequences”–I, and only I, respond to calls for Mommy. Finally, we’ve tried “rehearsal”–practicing the difference between “Mommy” and “Daddy” by asking Aitch to pat Mommy, or tickle Daddy, or give the toy to Mommy. Aitch gives every indication of understanding what we mean by Mommy and Daddy, but insists on his own meanings. Perverseness, stupidity, sense of humor? We’re not sure.

This isn’t the first concern we’ve had about Aitch’s language development. It seemed to us early on that he wasn’t as enthusiastic about communicating as we expected him to be. We tried sign language with him, thinking it would help him get across his wants and desires, but the only sign he imitated was “fan.” He did latch on to quite a few onomatopoeic words–animal noises, truck sounds, sniffing for “flower,” etc.–but he uses these steadfastly in lieu of the words they signify. We try to set a good example for him by using words instead of their sounds, but find ourselves inadvertently producing sentences like, “Look at the brrrm-brrrm and the ee-oo-ee-oo!” All in all, when we compared him to our friends’ children, he seemed…not drastically behind, but below average, in terms of the number and complexity of his utterances.

I know, I know–don’t compare, and don’t worry. So we didn’t. We answered our pediatrician’s questions about Aitch’s language; she agreed that there was probably no cause for concern, and gave us the number for Early Intervention. Since there was no cause for concern, we didn’t call. Our social worker, during the home study for our second adoption, asked how Aitch was doing language-wise; she agreed that Aitch would probably catch up eventually, but recommended Early Intervention to help him catch up more quickly. But since by this time his language was improving day by day, we didn’t call.

During our second homestudy meeting, our social worker asked whether we had called Early Intervention for Aitch yet. I was surprised; I thought we had closed the discussion, and instead I felt like a lazy mother who had not followed through on something important for her son. The social worker tried to reassure me about the value and professionalism of Early Intervention, none of which I doubted.

I struggled to explain why I did not want to call. It certainly wasn’t because of any stigma attached to getting early services–I’m hard-pressed to think of a child of my acquaintance who isn’t receiving Early Intervention (or, as one mother calls it, “free babysitting”). It was the stigma attached to the mother who is being too overprotective. I did not want to be that mother, the one who was always running to therapists suspecting autism or attachment disorder or serial killer tendencies or what have you. If I thought something were truly wrong, I would have no compunction about calling in whatever medical professionals were necessary to help my boy. But I did not want to waste state services–taking taxpayer-funded time away from children who really needed it–just to confirm my own suspicion that nothing was, in fact, wrong. I especially did not want to do so for no better reason than my social worker had (politely) bullied me into it.

So, the appointment’s scheduled for Tuesday morning. Yes, I am a hypocrite of the worst stripe. Is the stigma of being a neglectful mom far worse than the stigma of being an overprotective one? Perhaps. I like to think that my pediatrician convinced me, when we discussed it again at a recent appointment, by saying that I would learn a lot by watching the Early Intervention folks perform their assessment. And in talking to other adoptive moms, I’ve come to see the Early Intervention appointment as part of due diligence in adopting a child, much like the pediatrician appointment within 24 hours of arrival–probably not necessary, but certainly not harmful.

So here we go–my first contact with the Massachusetts social services system.