I definitely like it best when it's my turn to be Mother. It's
fun to be the one whose authority can be as absolute and as arbitrary
as I want to make it.
"Mother, may I take two baby steps," asks my inner baby. Maternally
speaking, I signal my permission. "May I take a giant step, perhaps,
dearest mother," my inner giant inquires expansively. "Yes," I
respond daringly, "you may." And he does. Only his giant step is
just too giant for me, it gets him closer than I want him, and,
when he's not looking, I promise myself not to let him take another
giant step for the rest of the game.
"Mother, may I take another giant step," my inner giant inquires. "No
you may not." "Mother, may I then take a monster step?" "No, you
may not." "Well, how about a baby step?" You forgot to say Mother
May I. Back to the start with you."
Sweet justice: just as I want it to be.
"Mother," asks the Funny me, funnily, "may I take a toilet paper
roll step?" How could I not agree? Funny me lies on the floor and
rolls almost to my feet. I am amused, and yet I can't help notice
that Funny me is now the closest to me of any of me.
"Mother," brazenly trumpets Funny me, "may I take two baby ballerina
steps." Baby ballerina steps in deed. Just too close.
"No," I reply, distantly, "but you may take one elephant step
backwards."
And so on, and so on, Brave me. Good me. Wise me. Old me. Father
me. Naughty me. Entertainingly, ingratiatingly, inexorably
moving closer. Each of me in its turn.
Until my chosen me reaches me, touches me, and makes me other. |
