Mamita

She wasn't old when I was born. But I know she would've liked to be younger. She'd spent her middle and late 20s in a long-distance relationship with my father, never able to commit. Finally, she did. He whisked her off to a faraway land, where she didn't speak the language. He was her comfort, but then I came along.

I was her firstborn, her niña grande- big girl. To her, I was like an anchor, a precious jewel. She pinched my chubby cheeks and cooed at me in Spanish. "Hay, que linda, Mamita! So pretty, Mamita!" Mamita was the smaller variant of 'mamá', mother. Little mother, she called me.

A four-year old, I learned quickly. She taught me to read at that early age. She spread out blankets under a canopy of leafy trees and we read together. She weaved me flower chains, and sat with me on warm nights, watching the stars spin around us. She tried to teach me to do summersaults in the long grass. When I whined and said it was too hard, she laughed. "Lo puedes hacer. You can do it, Mamita." I can still do them perfectly.

She left me outside the school when I was six. I cried and didn't want her to leave. She adjusted my backpack, smoothed my flyaway hair, and knelt on the ground, looking into my eyes. "Ya vengo. I'll be right back, Mamita." I knew she would. When I came home from school every day, she'd give me an apple and a biscuit and listen to me tell my stories. She knew Teresa was mean to me, Bobby was my best friend, and Mrs. Sellars was my favourite teacher.

As I grew, she knew my best time for the 100 meter sprint, the amount of mistakes I'd made in my piano recital, and the cutest boys in class. When I told her I wanted to be an astronaut someday, she raised her eyebrows, but with pride, not judgement. "Andale. Go for it, Mamita."

There's something about a teenage brain that seems to switch off. I no longer found myself in the kitchen with her after school, telling her about my hopes, dreams, and awful cafeteria meals. That was for my friends to hear about. I knew it hurt her, when I returned home after dark and she sat sadly at the table. "Donde estabas, Mamita? Where were you?" I'd offer a mediocre excuse, apologise for being late, and flop on my bed with the door closed. She just didn't understand.

Friendships blossomed into something more, and I found myself hand in hand with Bobby, the boy who'd been my best friend since my first day of school. She knew him as well as I did-- his favourite colour, the name of his tarantula, the way he hated ice in his drinks. She'd ask about him. I'd shrug it off. I wished her earnest eyes and soft voice didn't make me so annoyed. "Siempre estoy aqui. I'm always here if you want to talk, Mamita."

The years came and went. Bobby left in a similar way. Like a fresh wallpaper fading and curling at the corners, he wasn't the same as he used to be. I found him with another girl, Teresa, my childhood bully and rival. It broke me apart. My mother knew about Teresa and her wily ways, how she'd always been jealous of me. She knew something was wrong, in the way that I slumped in my chair, and went to bed at 7pm without eating supper. "Entiendo, Mamita. I understand." She'd say. But then she'd go upstairs to where Dad was waiting for her. She didn't understand.

I left for university. We were still estranged, the tension of all the memories we shared but never talked about weighing on us. I studied liberal arts. She knew I'd always wanted to be an astronaut, but didn't often bring it up. "Como estan los estudios? How are the classes, Mamita?" I would chalk it up to some fine experience, where I was popular, made great notes, and loved my field. In reality, it wasn't like that at all. But how could I tell her that as I stumbled through classes on philosophy, literature, and history, that I still stared out the window, wishing I could be among the stars?

Then I met him. My star. I didn't happen the way I thought it would. In fact, it was completely unromantic. He worked at the cafeteria, and asked me if I wanted mashed potatoes. His eyes, so earnest, so gentle, reminded me of hers. "You look like my mom." I said without thinking. He laughed.

Somehow, those eyes drew me back again. Not only to him, not only to love, but to everything I'd walked away from. I changed my studies to astrophysics. I told Bobby I forgave him. I started reading again. And I called my mom. Her voice was so soft, I nearly cried. "Como estas, Mamita? How are you, Mamita?" I told her I was okay. Then I told her everything else.

Fast forward five years. She was there through everything. My graduation, my first real job at a small space observatory. My journey with my guiding star. She called him 'Papito'- little father. Our wedding was space themed, and we served mashed potatoes.

She was there when I was flat on my back, screaming and threatening, as I squeezed life out of my body. She told me to push, and I told her I'd push her out of my life forever if she said that one more time. But how could I mean it? She understood what I was going through. As I held the red, wriggling child in my arms, coughing and crying, my mother held my hand. "Lo hiciste. You did it, Mamita."

My daughter had her eyes, her soft look. I was no longer a 'Mamita'. I was 'Mama', mother to my own child. But my mother had brought me there. Even when I had denied it, she understood. When I looked into her face, I knew the truth. She'd always been there.

Now it was my turn to be there for mine. And so I bent, and whispered to my daughter, "Welcome to the world, Mamita."