I used to attend a MOPS group hosted by a very large Baptist church.

The ladies were nice and attentive moms, with gentle spirits and trendy haircuts. I didn’t fit in 100%, but I faithfully attended, even giving a talk one morning on how to make playdough out of dryer lint.

The conclusion? It doesn’t really work, it’s ugly, but try it anyway if you’ve ever wondered if there was more life left in the airy cottony shreds of your clothes and you need something to talk about at a meeting.

A few times a month, some of the other moms and I would meet outside of MOPS. We’d have the usual juicebox-fueled playdates at centrally-located parks. The kids tore around on the playground, guaranteeing at least one bandaid application per hour. Our babies would loll around on a communal blanket while the moms stood around the picnic table, readying lunches which were never really eaten.

It was never a surprise when one of my friend’s children needed to address me. Sometimes it was for help tying a shoe. Other times, it was regarding one of my own children who was hogging the slide or the swing or the pirate ship’s crow’s nest or the rocking lion or the gravel or the ladder or the drinking fountain or the ducks in the pond.

These sweet little Baptist children would begin whatever it was they had to tell me with, “Miss Gretchen?”

It took me a long time to get used to being Miss Gretchen. It still rings odd in my ear as something slightly archaic and antebellum. Miss Gretchen? But I left my hoop skirt at home. In fact, I think it’s in the washing machine. Fiddlesticks!

That circle of friends held the firm belief that children should address adults in a manner denoting respect, and for them it was with the word Miss and the person’s first name. I understand.

I want my own children to demonstrate good manners and regard for all people they encounter and for that reason, I ask my adult friends how they wish to be addressed. I’d never assume because people come from all sorts of cultural, traditional, and spiritual backgrounds.

Some are fine with being called by their first name. Others have adopted the Miss moniker, which was especially fun when we’d regularly meet with a woman named Missy and her kids. I have friends who are only comfortable being called Mrs. Lastname by children.

I instruct my kids to comply with these wishes. Am I sending a mixed message by teaching my kids to call one grown woman Sarah but another Mrs. Brown? Maybe. I get confused by the differing philosophies, too.

I still don’t know what I want to be called, and I’ve been a Mrs. for almost 13 years and a mom for almost 12.

I go back and forth and will answer to any of the above variations without taking offense. Your kid respects me because I am tall and have a driver’s license.

It’s just easier to swallow Miss Gretchen with a little mint and a lot of julep.