Being Mama

When we play pretend, Clara can be Daddy and Margaret can be Stuart. But they never let me be anyone but Mama. Maybe for an instance, I can claim to be Tio or Tanna, but then they laugh and tumble into my laugh and both say, "You're just Mama, my mama." And since I learned I was carrying the two of them in my tummy, as they say, I have known this is who I would become. I think about them all the time. If we are apart--like now, when Gene has taken them to the grocery and the library--I wonder if they are okay, are they thirsty, will they tell him when they need the potty, will he be able to spot when Margaret is squeezing her body so she won't poop. If we are together, I wonder if I can continue to laugh and enjoy and engage them without getting too tired, wonder what and how I will fix for supper, hoping Clara will start to eat better and Margaret will fill up, because she never refuses food and just burns it all off. Only when I am sitting in a dark movie theatre do I forget, just for an instance, that I am Mama. I don't think of myself at all, I just watch whatever image is flickering on the screen.
Margaret and Clara don't see skin color, or body size or wrinkles or blotches or any other imperfection or distinction. Margaret easily and often slips her hand into the hand of a stranger who looks like the large woman who runs the church nursery. She and Clara seem to relax and smile when they hear someone speaking Spanish. When they look at me, they don't remember when I was last angry or tired or fed up or even gritting my teeth with frustration. They smile and pat me. And Margaret will lay one of her warm, small hands on my cheek and ask, in her soft voice, "You like me, Mama? You like me tons and tons still?" and I always say, "Tons and tons and more tons, baby."
Because that's what she knows Mama is going to say.