Ma-má!

She was walking along on a raised curb that surrounded a garden bed in the park nearby the house, holding my hand, the first time she said it. Ma-má (she used to call me Ba-Bá). Mamá. Me. And then she was off. She let go of my fingers and she trotted down the curb on her own. She climbed off at the end and looked back at me. Ma-má, she called, waiting for me to grab her hand and start at the beginning with her. Mamá.

 

That’s right, I told her. I’m Mamá. I gave her a big kiss. Mamás are for baby loving, I said.

 

Ever since then, Mommas have been for all sorts of things: For banana keeping. For booger snatching. For naptime snuggling. For mandarine peeling. For book reading. For bubble blowing. For poop flushing. For milk giving. For fort building. For paint playing. For crazy dancing. For lion roaring. For boo-boo kissing. For hair drying. For silliness making. For head bonking. For window gazing. For outside going. For toy holding. For snack bringing. For dog walking.

 

She was looking up at me the latest time she said it. Standing on my feet, pointing to her water cup, asking me for more, Ma-má. I stooped down, handed her the cup, gave her a kiss. That’s right, I whispered as I ruffled her hair. I’m Mamá. Mommas are for water delivering.

 

...But they’re for baby loving most of all.