A rose by any other name

So yesterday was mother's day. My second mother's day as a mom. And I loved it.

M and I had a lovely day with Monkey. We brunched at Community Food & Juice, rolled in the verdant green grass, admired flowers, read books, and went to Monkey's first-ever street fair. She loved it! I have some great photos of Monkey eating Italian Ice and roasted corn on the cob. Mmmm, street fair food is the best.

But what I really want to write about is Monkey's name for me. When she was just learning to talk, she called me Mama. Which I adore. It's so sweet, so Monkey. And it was never what I called myself when talking to her - I'd always say "hand the ball to Mommy" purely out of habit, I guess because that is what I called my mom when I was little? Who knows. But I always treasured Monkey's chosen word for me. It seemed, yes, this is sappy, special.

And now, lately, she has started calling me Mommy. And for whatever reason, it almost breaks my heart. Because my little girl is growing up. She's shedding her babyish ways, right in front of me, and with each utterance of the word "mommy" (or complex phrase like "where did it {squirrel} go?") she gets a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit more independent. And I am so proud of her.

But still, my heart aches to be called Mama.