The biggest shout out ever to my wonderful, wonderful oh so wonderful Beta Tuesday November! You are actually the best!

Meno male: pronounced MEH-no MA-lay thank god, and
bambino terribile: prounounced te-RI-bi-lay naughty child.

Mama

Balbina Zabini

"Mama" is not an easy job. Mama mia, it's not! And a mama's job is to put herself out of a job, and maybe... pass on the title.

I haven't done too badly in that respect. All four of my girls now bear the title "Mama."

It was scary the first time. Isabella went to Italy, snapped her fingers and came back with a new man. He knew as well as anyone that what Isabella wants, Isabella gets, and she wanted him. They got married. They had babies. Lots of babies! Seven in total by the time they had finished, long after all my other daughters had stopped. And without the financial constraints Aldo and I had faced, thanks to my clever Izzy's career (and her new man's substantial wealth.)

They lived the life of matrimonial bliss that every Mama dreams for her daughter the moment she is first placed in her arms.

Verdette followed Isabella. "If Izzy can make it as an actress in Italy, I can make it as a singer!" And she did. Very successfully. I was worried about sending her. I'd never approved of any of her boyfriends. They were all so wild! Just like her I suppose.

But she caught the eye of a charming young man. A very tame and respectable and gentle young man. Not like my little Verdette in any way, meno male! They got married. They had babies. Though not quite so many as Isabella.

Oh I was sure my Verdette would love her little ones, just as much as any mother, but nobody ever saw Verdette as a maternal type. It was a great shock seeing her turned into Mother of the Year by her brood of three. But Verdette, my spoilt little baby was the most loving Mama you've ever seen. Later, when her youngest was asked, by her cousin Blaise, who she loved most in the world, she replied "Mama of course... oh and Papa I suppose."

Amata-Maria was unexpected. She was always so quiet with her books, and if truth be told, I expected my middle daughter to stay at home far longer than she did. But she too went to Italy. She too found her inspiration and she too was very successful. All that time spent with her nose in a book did her good. I had no idea she could write so well. She's the best author I know. And I don't say that only because I'm her Mama.

She too met a husband, another author, and they had two children. Twins, a boy and a girl. But her author man was a flighty lover. She discovered him with yet another author and he left her with the bambinos, both not yet five years old and confused as to where their Papa had gone. They never saw him again.

I begged her to come home. My poor little Amata-Maria. I wanted to take her back into my house with her poor little bambinos, and let Mama look after her and protect them all from the nasty world.

She refused.

"Italy is their home Mama. I can't drag my children off to another country. They're upset enough as it is without leaving their home."

She stayed and raised them herself. And finer children you have never seen. They are polite and well behaved but not sickeningly so, like those children that do nothing but suck up to adults, bah! They have a spark of life about them and a mischievous streak runs through both. It is a joy to have them visit and hear them babble in rapid Italian to me, despite their Mama's reproach they should "Speak English in England you bambino terribile!"

I was so proud of my three daughters and oh so happy for them. But a part of me sighed with relief when Pretty-Girl brought home her English fiancé.

Oh Blaise Pascal was a wonderful man. A king among men. And my Carolina was his beloved Regina. His family were all perfectly lovely. His Mother hailed from Italia just like us, making him even more suitable for my precious Pretty-Girl. And his Father's family were French, which I'm sure was the next best thing. They were lovely people, graciously complementing everything when they first visited us, from my cooking to the curtains. Even more amazing was their sincerity. They really did like our home. I nearly died of shock seeing theirs. A sprawling manor in the country side. Mama mia, Pretty-Girl, I thought. If I didn't know you so well I'd think you were a gold-digger.

Pretty-Girl got on very well with her new in-laws. But, she had a very antagonistic relationship with Blaise's sister. She could go on for hours about "that nasty Cossette!" But I could see, as only a Mama can, that they were very, very similar girls. Both held a great respect for the other, though they would never have admitted this. Personally I liked Cossette. She was a very pleasant girl.

And even Carolina had to admit she loved Blaise. And then Little Blaise came along.

Cossette was an adoring Aunt.

Carolina complained to her in the hospital "He's my bambino! I want to hold him."

Reluctantly Cossette had placed Little Blaise back in his Mama's arms.

There was venom in both of their gazes. But also a hidden respect for the other's love of Little Blaise.

Silly girls. They could've been the best of friends.

We all loved little Blaise. Such a good bambino, just like his Mama. Carolina could stare at him for hours cradled in her arms.

"He looks like his Daddy," she would proudly state. "He'll be the image of Blaise when he grows up."

I observed my baby Grandson with a smile. A tiny, coffee coloured creature, with wispy dark hair, a button nose, and the longest eyelashes I'd ever seen on a boy child.

No Pretty-Girl, I smiled to myself. He looks like you.

He brought to mind another little boy that looked like my Carolina.

I had done a good job with my girls. I had put myself out of a job. I had raised them so they didn't need their Mama anymore. They had flown from my nest and formed their own.

But one little boy would never fly from Mama's nest. Instead he lay under a pillow of marble and a blanket of soil. My Benji was gone. But he did not fly. He was taken.

I stroked a finger along Little Blaise's cheek and hoped, with all my being, that none of my daughters ever lost what I had lost.