There is nothing quite like that first one. The sweet, quiet jumble of consonants and vowels, your imagination translates into a connection. That first, tiny, hopeful, audible love.

“Mmma-Ma”.

It’s magnetic. It’s magic. And while its first existence was likely an accidental concoction of fumbling oral motor development, and an absolute lack of physical mobility necessary to even direct their babbling away from the only engaging moveable form in their single square footage of presence, the addiction has already begun. Like some sort of DNA grade, estrogen-driven narcotic, you develop a sort of physical thirst for more of that delicious little four-letter word. And so, you instantly become a bottomless cavern of echos, wishfully waiting for a parroted fix. Mama Magic. Mama Magnetism.

Fast forward a few years and that once sweet, intoxicating love song has abruptly lost its charm. Perhaps it is simply a loss of novelty, or the seemingly masterful tuning of their tone to an almost toxic pitch, tailored specifically for your maternal drum, like some sort of DNA driven dog whistle, or simply the endless addition of mini MAMA performing artists, creating a symphony of repelling pitches and demands, or perhaps it is the sheer number of repetitions over the years (keeping in mind that mothering-young-children years, are equivalent to dog years…plus some), that have reached a credit roll that now defines infinity. Don’t get me wrong…I love my little Mama Monsters, but somewhere amidst the sibling squabbles and diaper disasters and mundane moments that felt like their own epic emergencies that led to each and every “MAMA” moment, the polls changed on the magnetism of that magical little word. When did I become the magnet, and why does such an attractive magnetism feel so repelling sometimes?

Here are the lyrics to  a representative performance piece, as spoken by my own troop of little drama royalty:

Enter First Strings: “Maaaaaaaaaaaaama. Oh, um Mama. Mama. Ummmmm. Mama.”

Enter Subtle Wishful Winds Section: “Yes, Honey.”

First Strings Interrupt: “Ummmmmmmmmmm. Mama. Ummm?”

Enter Second Strings: “Mama. MaMa. MAMA!!!”

First Strings Interrupts: “Hey! I was talking to Mama. Mama. Mama. Um…Mama.”

Second String Interrupts: “No, IIIIII was talking to Mama. MAMA!”

Suddenly the string section unites: “MAAAAAAAAMA!!!”

Enter Third Strings: “MAMA!”

Eventually, the conductor realizes she is not at all conducting, but, in fact, is amidst a jaded jam session that has no evident end in site.

So I run. And as I try to escape my own symphony of adoring fans, the pull of my Mama Magnetism only draws the crescendo closer, their tiny fingers begging through the sliver under the bathroom door, my own little Mama version of Beliebers.  When did solo pottying become both a coveted privilege and a distant memory? When did checking Mama checking an email become so much for magnetic than the stockpile of toys that now qualify us for an episode of Hoarders? When did “cleaning” the garage become cooler than a backyard so riddled with spoils that it now resembles Neverland Ranch  (note the quotes, as cleaning with my kiddos, actually means destroying any hope of order at a speed of at least 3X as fast as I can “clean”)? Why do my little Mama Monsters feel compelled to break through barricades, leap over gates titled and tailored specifically to detour them, and collide with closed doors, just to utter THAT word, when their ridiculous race began in the quite capable Daddy’s lap to begin with? When did I become the magnet? Where did the magic of that magnetism go? And why-oh-why did I ever teach my children to parrot that deceptively innocent little four letter word?

I know. I know. One day soon I will miss the magic of these magnetic moments, but…

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMA”

Crap. Gotta go. I’m feeling the pull again.