Are You My Mother?

                                     Photo by B. Schnei

Now that you're seven, Sir Blakey, I should probably tell you the truth. You're adopted. I'm not your birth mother. So why do I call myself Mommy? It's my pet name. If I'd personally popped you out, I'd deserve a listing in the Guinness Book of World Wackadoodles. On top of which, my future grandchild might ask some tough questions. I can just hear the conversation:
"Grammala, I'm doing a family tree for school."
"Yay."
"Where does Blakey go?"
"Go?"
"On the tree."
"Oh, near the trunk, chasing the squirrel."
"Is the squirrel part of the family tree, too?"
"No. He's part of the decor."
"Does that mean you're not the squirrel's mommy?"
"Of course, I'm not. What do you think, your grammala's a freak?"
"Well, you're Blakey's mommy, so.... "
"So that's enough with the questions. Have a nice cookie."

I hope this clears things up, Blakey. And please let me take this opportunity to wish you a very happy made-up seventh birthday, and many more. Now get off the bed so I can finish making it.