If I didn't give birth to you, don't call me Mom.

Last week, I walked into Large Financial Institution to deposit some money into Number One Son's account. It's not something I do with regularity, much to his disappointment, but he called saying he was down to his last $10.

Large Financial Institution has a stolid, red granite facade. The interior of the bank also resonates somber permanence. More granite. Spaciousness. Luxury. Volume. “We're here to stay,” it said. Except that the building above the bank lobby, 55 stories of undulating windows, was sold several years ago and the bank's headquarters are now in the Deep South -- not illustrious San Francisco.

I stand at the table and write out my meager deposit.

At last it's my turn. Perky Teller at Number One Window beckons me. And immediately starts chatting me up. I'm not here for a conversation. I'm here to make a freaking deposit. We commiserate about the week, happy for the weekend and then she complains about how busy the weekend is. Like, honey, would you rather work 7 days? Because I've done that. Recently. Notsomuchfun.

I make the error of revealing my mission.

“I would like to make a deposit into my son's account.”

“Okay, Mom! Can you put his address on the deposit slip?”

My mind goes into programming abend. Mom? MOM? Tell me, Who the F**K are YOU?

I smile nicely, telling her I'm unsure as to which (of 3) addresses might be the correct one. So I guess one and she rewards me with a big smile telling me that's correct and could I please fill that in the deposit slip.

(Mom).

We come to the big finish. The Money shot.

Mom, since you'll be making deposits like this for the next 3 or 4 years, would you like to open an account with Large Financial Institution?

No, thanks. I'm happy with my credit union.

“Oh,” she says weakly. “They have good rates.”

“Yes, and their fees are much lower, too.” I reply.

AND THEIR TELLERS DON'T GET ALL PRESUMPTUOUS AND OVERLY FAMILIAR CALLING THEIR MEMBERS “MOM.”