Ama de Casa is “housewife” in Mexico. I guess that’s what I am, although I don’t really think my house or wife-ness is the main part of my day. De casa is pretty easy to understand—of house. But ama? Nobody could give me a direct translation. It is a word that doesn’t exist outside of the phrase.
Boy, I know how that feels.
So I started confusing it with alma as in “soul” and it’s so entrenched in my mind now that I think of myself as the “soul of the house.” That is both so beautiful and so heartbreaking.
And what kind of soul does this home have? Is it harried and hurried? This last week was busy. No time for writing. No time for syrup-based breakfasts. Hardly time for baby napping. I must have shepherded my little creatures out of the door a billion times, always with the same urgency and impatience. Mae finally told me, “Mommy, get used to it. You’re a late person!”
Sunday night is a night to recommit. New week. New soul. It’s not too late for that.