The most important hat I have ever worn. Being his mama is different from being a Mama or their mama, his mama means new rules and a heightened level of love and worry and appreciation that feels much like the whizzing of Willy Wonka’s glass elevator. The sky is endless and one must hang on tight, enjoy the harrowing ride, the beautiful views and soak in the perspective that sometimes feels like the swallowing of poisonous nectar. Bittersweet truth claims the souls of special needs mamas, but the lovely is the sticky residue left behind.

Mama. This morning, he lay in his crib, quiet and content, reading his books. He had been banished to the old sleep space that he had nearly abandoned for his sister’s room, her spare twin bed. He was ousted last night though because she had a friend sleeping over and so, he had been relegated to the crib and seemed quite happy in his old stomping grounds. I found him like this, his face pressed against the page of his friend Llama sitting with his Mama. Mama, he said when he saw me. Mama.

His mama. I am mama to four children that I happily call my own and being his mama, well, it has defied the odds of love I once knew. Mama. I didn’t know such a love existed as this and that being Mama would be so wonderfully amazing and perfect in its’ imperfection. Perhaps I marvel too much with this recurring epiphany, but those lightning bolts that strike my heart each time his face lights up at the very sight of me, they insist upon my words. My humble scrawlings, meager thunder at best, but perhaps they give a peek into the heart that is enraptured with true joy. Mama.