The first pets I remember owning were turtles. I was three. There were two of them in a kidney shaped bowl with a little green palm tree in the middle. I named them Pixie and Dixie. They died. You buried them in the back yard.
I dug them up remember?
A pleasant childhood memory indeed.
I thought about getting you turtles for Mother's Day. Just for old time’s sake, but you hid them pretty well the second time. Besides, I think those little turtles are illegal now because they are poisonous. I kept thinking.
I considered sending a carton of Alpine cigarettes to replace the ones I stole from you and smoked in the alley with my friends, but you don’t smoke anymore, besides, cigarettes don’t exactly say I love you. They might kill you.
You used to take me to the Circus and let me ride the elephant. That would make the perfect Mother’s day gift! We could climb on top of a pissed off pachyderm and let a drunk Carney lead us around in a circle. How is that for mother daughter bonding? Then I remembered Sue the elephant in Ohio that lost her mind and trampled a bunch of Shriner's. We probably shouldn’t risk it.
I crossed the Oscar Meyer Wiener Whistle off the list, even though I loved it when you took me to Joe White’s grocery store to see the midget in the hot dog car. The whistles were recalled years ago due to being a choking hazard. Another childhood memory sullied.
We could go for a bike ride except we don’t have helmets. There is always shopping. Shopping seemed safe. Then I remembered the time you lost me at Montgomery Ward’s, and it took you at least an hour to come get me from the bra department. I understand the allure of a good shoe sale, but I am not convinced you didn’t hear my repeated pleas for help over the intercom. Shopping is out. I am not taking any chances.
We could get matching tattoos! I couldn’t think of a better way to commemorate our shared life experience. Unicorns? Butterflies? Skulls? I was going to let you choose. Then I figured in twenty years we would find out that the ink causes hemorrhoids or something and you would blame me. Scratch tattoos.
After careful consideration, I have decided that it is dangerous to have a mother. Just think of the pounds of carcinogen-laced bacon, the second hand smoke, the flammable pajamas and the toys slathered in lead based paint. I am amazed that I survived to adulthood.
Good grief woman, were you trying to kill me?
Don't answer that!
Happy Mother's Day anyway,