“Mama” is almost never a baby’s first word. The “mmmm” sound involves bearing down and is made by abdominal pressure as the baby seals her mouth and pushes air through her nose. She makes this sound when she is feeding or feeling tension — or straining in her diaper. Mothers don’t usually get in their baby’s faces, smile, clap, and mimic this red-faced “mmmm.” We’re too busy reaching for baby wipes and fresh diapers — and cursing Dada for somehow always missing this sacred ritual. No, “Mama” is almost never a baby’s first word — it’s not an inherently joyful sound that brings squeals of delight from the tall, hovering people.
So what is a baby’s first word? Anyone who has ever been around a baby immediately knows the correct answer — it’s Dada, of course — because Dada is an easier sound to make. The baby lifts her tongue to the roof of her mouth, which is a motor skill that often develops as she babbles during happy, relaxed moments. Daddy laughs, claps, and praises his brilliant progeny, as Mama stocks up on fresh diapers.
Dada — play with me.
Mama — comfort me.
More than 150 countries around the world celebrate Mother’s Day — usually in May. In most of these countries, there’s a bearing-down “mmmm” word to name this Goddess: Mamá in Spanish, Mamusia in Ukrainian, Mamãe in Portuguese, Mamma in Italian, and plain, old “Mama,” used by billions of comforted babies worldwide.
In the U.S., Mother’s Day is always the second Sunday of May. In Mexico, it is always on May 10. This year, those dates coincide —something that won’t happen again for 11 years. In Santa Barbara County, nearly 50% of mothers are Hispanic. One of them is my friend, Dolores (not her real name).
Her story is heroic, but all mothers are heroic in their own way. We love, defend, and comfort these babies with our blood, sweat, and tears — figuratively and literally.
Dolores is a mother and grandmother who has lived in Santa Barbara for decades. She pays taxes and was always the first to volunteer at school fundraisers. A few days before Christmas, she was at the gym, working out with weights and battle ropes — as she does three times a week — when she fell to the floor, unconscious. She was rushed to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with a stroke and multiple brain bleeds.
When I visited her after her second brain surgery, she attempted a laugh as she showed me her half-shaved head and stapled scalp. Laughter is Dolores’s default setting, but this laughter was different: low and sad, vulnerable, and absent from her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse from the intubation tube that had abraded her vocal cords during surgery. She motioned for me to lean in closer so I could hear her weak voice. “I know… why this… happened,” I took her hand and waited for her to continue.
“It’s the…stress.”
Dolores is undocumented. Since Trump’s re-election, her life has changed in fundamental ways. She monitors group chats and rapid-response networks, ever vigilant for unmarked cars and masked men who stalk our community. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. In her 20s, she married an American serviceman. When he became obsessive, controlling and abusive, she no longer felt safe for herself or her baby daughter. Distraught, Dolores filed for divorce, not realizing that, in doing so, she could negate her claim to citizenship. In the scramble to start over, immigration paperwork overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t afford a lawyer to help her navigate the labyrinthine system. The pathway she thought she had, evaporated amid paperwork and fear.
Thirty years later, Dolores’ baby daughter is a Santa Barbara nurse, and Dolores — the same brave, independent mother — goes to ground when ICE is in town. Errands get canceled, curtains close, and mothers text each other, “Don’t go out. Stay inside.” Now the roles are reversing, and the daughter holds the mother and tells her everything will be okay.
“Where… would I go if… ICE took me?” Dolores whispered from her hospital bed. “My babies and …grandbabies are all… here. I need them… and they need me.”
On May 10, as the Mexican and U.S. dates converge, millions of Spanish-speaking Mamás will wake to the sound of their children and grandchildren — sometimes with a mariachi band strumming at the door — serenading them with Las Mañanitas, Mexico’s beloved morning song. The lyrics celebrate Mamás as the center of the family’s world: El día en que tú naciste nacieron todas las flores. “The day you were born, all the flowers were born.”
This Mother’s Day — indeed, all of May, the month of the Virgin Mary and the very heart of spring — let’s all sing praises to the mothers in our midst. They are the source of beauty, the heart and soul of the family, the quiet heroes who are there when we bear down, push air through our noses, and hum “mmmm.”
“Mama — comfort me.”
