Mama

The discomfort of pregnancy, two months of nausea, the pain of labor. The sleepless nights, and the constant crying and whining. Scaring the bejeesus out of me by coming down with RSV at eight weeks old. The pinching and hair-pulling and scratching. (Must you be so quintessentially girl?) The near-constant smothering need to be held by someone, preferably me. A year of not being able to ever sleep late, not once. Even when I go out of town and you stay with Dada or Grandma and Papaw, or Aunt Lisa, even then, you are with me, because I have to pump first thing in the morning and then every three-four hours during the day.

Sometimes, I am exhausted with it all.

But then, yesterday afternoon, after a long car ride home from the Lake, we set you on the floor in the family room, started unpacking the car, then I sat down to check my email while Daddy flipped channels on the remote. You immediately started whining, then quickly shifted gears to all-out crying. Daddy and I looked at each other and then at you. I said, "Matilda, it's okay. You need to spend some time on the floor, or you are never going to learn to crawl." Daddy and I looked back at our respective screens. And then I heard it, clear as a bell. One word.

"Mama."

I picked you up and held you, tears in my eyes. You haven't said it again. I'm sure you won't, not until you get really desperate. Hearing it really made all of the difficulty worthwhile, though. We went out to dinner last night, and sitting at Little Azio's, I realized I was smiling, all because you said my name. One time. Under duress.

Or maybe it was the half carafe of wine I was having with dinner.