I got called “Georgia” by one of my son’s friends the other day.

I wasn’t insulted — I know from firsthand experience that kids nowadays have a startling familiarity with adults. My own son and his cousin, both 6 years old, once walked up to my husband’s 70-year-old uncle when they saw him smoking a cigar and lectured him on its dangers.

“We thought smoking was bad,” they both said when we explained why the man had reacted poorly to their correction.

“It is,” I said, mumbling something about adults and personal choice and the two of them minding their own business.

I didn’t know quite what to say to them because I couldn’t relate to the degree of comfort they had in expressing their opinion about an adult’s bad habit. As a child, I was terrified of grown-ups. I’d never have presumed a degree of intimacy that would encourage, or even allow, me to correct one of them.

Calling adults by their first names was another sign of equality that remained out of my reach.

I grew up with clear expectations that I would refer to anyone older than me by “Mrs.,” “Mr.,” “Dr.,” “Professor,” “Aunt,” “Miss” — whatever, as long as it wasn’t their first name. A few years after my parents divorced, my dad introduced me to his then-girlfriend, whom I will call “Jane” (although I could never do so at the time).

In fact, my brothers and I called her “Miss Jane” for so long that, even after they married, it was almost impossible for me to get the word “Jane” out of my mouth without the “Miss” in front of it. In public, I’d sometimes forget she was my stepmother and call her “Miss Jane,” like she was the villain in a novel about a Victorian orphanage.

Even once I was an adult myself, I found myself often falling back into the habit of addressing people by “Mr.” or “Mrs.”

As a young newspaper reporter, I was sent to Halas Hall once to write a story about a guy who’d gotten tattoos of Chicago Bears players’ names on his body.

While interviewing Charles Tillman for the story, I called him “Mr. Tillman” by habit. Tillman raised an eyebrow and looked at me funny, though he had the class not to comment. When I did the same to his teammate, Nate Vasher, he laughed uproariously.

“Mr. Vasher?” he asked. “That’s good.”

I remember thinking at the time that they were professionals in their field, elite among the sport’s practitioners, and I should show them respect. But maybe I sounded insecure or like a kiss-up, what used to be called an “Eddie Haskell.”

Even in — ahem — middle age, I sometimes return to the practice, and call someone “ma’am” or “sir,” “Mr.” or “Mrs.”

It especially happens when I’m nervous, like when I’m being quizzed in the line at Customs or in the middle of a job interview. I must admit, it hasn’t hurt me yet. People often don’t mind hearing a little fear in someone’s voice.