“Say, Mama.” The number of times I repeated that phrase to my children. Especially my son. He was a later talker. He didn’t say Mama for a long time. I remember thinking that some day I’d just want him to stop saying my name. (The early morning chanting from his crib comes to mind). But I was desperate. This little boy had taken over my life almost from the moment he was conceived.
My pregnancy after miscarriage, I needed a win and nothing seemed to be going well. I was sicker and more tired and expected. I developed gestational diabetes. I have two week of prodromal labor and he arrived 10 days late. Then he was slow to thrive, with severe reflux, underweight, poor nurser and developed food allergies.
So when his speech was late I tried not to panic, but how I wanted to hear him say Mama. Just to know that he connected with me, acknowledged me. Yes, he couldn’t live without me, but I needed that emotional connection.
Now he’s two and half and every bit a Daddy’s boy. But we still have our tender moments when he climbs into my lap with a book or stops playing just long enough to demand a hug or a kiss. Now he even says “Wuv you, Mama.”