She calls me Mamacita.
Not even necessarily often.
But she calls me Mamacita.
It started a few weeks ago.
A horrible long week, with Snow Days Twelve and Thirteen nestled snugly in the throes of my strep throat and sinus infection and my husband’s busy work schedule.
One day, in that fog of sickness and desperation, I folded on the American Academy of Pediatrics lofty television watching limitations.
Those guidelines were clearly not developed by anyone who lived with small children currently.
They are, in a word, aspirational.
Something I can live up to when the weather is nice and I’m healthy and no one has visited my bed in the wee hours of the morning.
But not every day.
And, thanks to my capitulation and an excess amount of Sesame Street, she now calls me Mamacita.
Mamacita, you have give me kisses.
No, no, Mamacita, I sit here.
I made soup for you, Mamacita.
I suspect that this is one of those moments in the parent-child relationship that won’t last.
This relic of my weakness may be gone in a month.
She grows so fast and changes so much.
It’s hard to keep up with her.
The hours are long but the weeks are short.
I’ll miss being her Mamacita.
At least I’ll remember that it happened.