Mother of Invention

b.w. ryan

For five years running Mom slaved me up beautiful birthday theme parties. She spent every extra hour of the year preparing for that one afternoon:

The first year: ten tiny cowpokes galloped roped sofa bolsters through the apartment; Mom played booze-harp by stovefire; each kid got a poncho cut out of our old carpet, hand-painted.

The second year: “astro-tots” bungee-bobbed from party-hooks mounted in the ceiling; Spacesuit Timmy nearly suffocated with fudge in his air-hole; Mom moonscaped the table with lunar pinnacles of greycake; each kid got a laser.

The third year, medieval living at its freshest: Mom had the toilet torn out of the bathroom for the afternoon; Cajun ‘gator was our dragonmeat; each kid got a box of pox paint and a dunking underwater.

The penultimate year: little gods of Greece romped in sheets and glitter; each got a puny mortal doll who faced the cruel Handsaw, Candle Patch and Turdpool; Mom wore Hera’s pine cones and fretted for the hero.

That last year: kids arrived as buckle-sucking Bedlamites; Mom just cackled.