If I call you mama, consider it the highest praise. I may tag it to the end of a sentence. I might write it on a card with the fluid swoop of my fountain pen. I don’t care whether you have kids. I don’t even care whether you’re a woman; yes, I may call you mama even if you’re a man. (And why not? We use masculine designations for people who aren’t men all the time — hey guys, what’s up dude, mankind, etc. Switching is fair play.)
Thanks, mama. How are you, mama. I may say it was we embrace, the smell of our perfume and shampoo coming together, the warmth of our arms around each other in greeting, in fellowship. I might draw it out like I draw out giiiiiirl; I might open the door on those two ancient syllables and let them fill with double-meaning that swirls like chocolate-vanilla soft-serve and makes us both laugh.
I say mama because there’s no word I can use to better convey my love for you, or my respect for you. A mama is everything I admire in the world. I don’t mean that like the syrupy pablum of a Mother’s Day card. I mean it far more seriously, and from experience. I mean motherhood as a container of essential and mighty multitudes: perseverance, forbearance, strength of muscle and mind, softness of body and spirit, a capacity for unmatched generosity, a capacity for unmatched tenderness, an acceptance of joy even when it leaves you vulnerable, grit…
