Ma-Ma

The short story: holyshit she said "ma-ma" when she saw meeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The long story: Baby girl is a talker. Coming from a French-Cajun mom and a Russian dad, that's not really a surprise to anyone. While not really a big fan of rolling or crawling or any of her other gross motor skills, her verbal skills have always been a bit ahead of the curve. She has a wide range of babbling syllables that she mixes to her heart's content: da, ma, ba, la, na, k and any variation therein. She knows the meanings of the words "kitty" and "more." She's picking up on "bye-bye," though for her it's more like "ba-ba" and her chubby little fingers curl toward her on the wave and not at the person departing. But you get the idea. She's a talker.

Even though she can mimic back sounds to our heart's content, we hadn't really seen her connect any one sound to its concept yet.

Yet.

Today. Today I walked into her day care, dripping from the rain outside, drudging from the weight of another long, hectic work day. As always, as I stopped to cover my shoes with little booties before heading into the infant room, I looked through the big window to see what my little girl was up to. Usually she'll glance at the person in the window (me), and it will take her a beat or two, but then she will recognize me and break into a giant smile and start flapping her arms. Best part of my day.

But today. Today, I stood there, covering my shoes, waiting for her to look up from her toys and her friends to notice me. She looked up. We caught each other's gaze. I waved and gave her my biggest "hi baby!!!" smile. The light of recognition in her eyes. She smiled back. And then. And then. Her little lips. They moved.

And in my head I could hear her tentative whisper, the volume she speaks in when she's experimenting with a sound. I could hear her as I watched her lips move. "Ma-ma." Like she was trying out the sound. Like she was seeing if that sound was the one she was searching for, the one that fit the face she saw in the window. She said it again. "Ma-ma." Like a test. To see how it felt in her mouth. To see if it clicked with her thoughts. And then, satisfied with herself, her sudden cheeky little grin. She had said it. Mama.

I stood in the window, waving and grinning like a maniac, my heart exploding into a thousand pieces, oblivious to the fact that my shoes were covered and I could rush into the room and scoop her up in my arms and twirl around with her, listening to her say "ma-ma" over and over and over again.

She said it one more time, with more confidence. "Ma-ma." And then went back to her toys, as if, approving of the giant leap she had just made, she could resume her life making Ernie pop out from behind a red plastic door.

But that moment was real. It was all mine, tucked into my heart forever and ever.

She knows me.

She knows that I'm her mama.