Mama

Mothers fill all sorts of descriptions and come in all shapes, sizes, and ages. I suspect that in all of the Mother's Day festivities, we may forget to honor those nurterers. I come here this evening to honor one of them.

When my sister Liz had her daughter, I was frankly amazed. She could change or bathe her baby before you had a chance to know it was happening. I was eighteen at the time - young and unaware of these things. She's always been dexterous with her strong, beautiful hands, but this was some next-level stuff. Time went on and I sort of forgot, because young people, hello!

It wasn't until many years later that I realized why Liz was so great at these tasks. You see, B. wasn't her first baby. At the tender age of a few days before she turned six, I became her first baby. Perhaps I need to remind you that my mother was probably clinically depressed, and thousands of miles from her own family. I still feel guilty about it, but I know Liz was a good little mama. She provided me with everything but breast milk. I'm fairly certain that she was the only girl around whose baby doll was a real baby.

I don't remember those days, but I know she took amazing care of me. She began school a year late because she was in charge of my care. This breaks my heart, and also fills it with love for my little mama. Liz, I was so very fortunate to have you to care for me, and for you to be the first to show me love with your tender care.

Thank you for being my mama.

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