An Old Conversation with My Mother:

My Mother: I remembered something from when you were very little about Jeffrey.

Me: My doll?

My Mother: Yes. Your doll Jeffrey. It was a memory buried in the recess of the armpit of my brain.

Me: Well, what was it?

My Mother: It was the time I tried to wash him. He was sickening, Jessica. Really sickening. You refused to let him go for a millisecond. So I snuck into your room while you were sleeping and I pried him from your death grip and threw him right in the washing machine. But when I took him out, there was trouble.

Me: What kind of trouble?

My Mother: I shredded Jeffrey.

Me: You did???

My Mother: It wasn’t on purpose. Oh, Jessica, you cannot understand the panic I experienced that day. I tried to fix him, I did. But when I pulled his little talking cord, instead of yelling at the top of his lungs, “Mama I wanna nother drink of water!” foam dribbled from his mouth. I killed Jeffrey.

Me: What did you do?

My Mother: Well, I wanted to go to the store and get you a new one before you woke up, but you woke up in hysterics a few moments later because Jeffrey was gone, and I had to explain how Jeffrey had to go on an emergency vacation, but that he’d be back tomorrow. And the next day I went to the toy store and bought you another one.

Me: You did?

My Mother: Of course I did.

Me: And I was ok?

My Mother: Yes, you survived. See, I wasn’t an entirely terrible mother.

Me: Nobody said you were.

My Mother: The other day, you said something that insinuated I was an entirely terrible mother.

Me: I did not.

My Mother: You did so.

Me: I’m sure you misinterpreted whatever I really said.

My Mother: Somewhere in the recess of the armpit of your brain is a little voice peeping, “My mother is an entirely terrible mother.”

Me: That’s ridiculous.

Brautigan: Choo choo.

My Mother: Is that my grandson?

Me: Yes.

My Mother: What’s he doing?

Me: He’s playing with his train. He’s choo-chooing.

My Mother: Aww, how sweet. Can he hear me?

Me: Yes.

My Mother: Brautigan, it’s Grand-mère. Would you like me to sing the railroad song?

Brautigan: Yesh.

My Mother: Ok! A-one, and a-two, and you know what to do: I’ve been working on the railroad….
(On and on) Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah… blowin’ on the ol’ high ho.

Me: Mother, excuse me, but nobody “blows on the ol’ high ho” in children’s songs.

My Mother: No?

Me: No.

My Mother: Well, what do they do?

Me: In this particular song, they strum on the ol’ banjo.

My Mother: Well, excuse me.

Brautigan: Mo’ singing!

My Mother: Of course, Brautigan. Shall we take it from the top?

Brautigan: Yesh!