Mother's Day (though two days late)

One bright summer morning my mother woke me up. I could tell through her eyes that she had a surprise for me. I was only about six so I jumped out of my bed to see what she had. She took me to our living room and guided me to the center table. On top of the table was her big surprise. And I was!

Standing on its lonesome was my Ziggy, that bald-head big-nose rubber figure I got from a big can of Tang. Only on this particular morning, Mr. Ziggy is no longer bald. My mother, using a blue ballpoint pen, grew neatly combed hair for the immaculately happy toy. Like a little boy who suddenly found a favored toy destroyed--who I was--I went ballistic with intermingled feelings of anger and frustration. As soon as my mother tried to comfort me, I ran back to my and cried alone.

It took me about half an hour to finally unbury my head from the already soaked sheets. I could hear my mother in the kitchen who was all the time washing clothes on the sink. Still sobbing, I peeked at the door, I dont really remember why--I must have been hungry or just tired. I saw her leaning onto the sink concentrating on her washing, alternately using detergent and bleach. Peeking closely I realized that all of the time, she was actually trying to wash away the hair she drew on my Ziggy. She must have heard me come out of the room when she said "See, it's already as good as the original." Coming up to her, I saw that her hands have already turned pale and wrinkled from all the bleach.

It is only when I became an adult that I realize how sad she must have been that morning. Watching me sleep, she must have patiently sketched hair drawings on the rubber figure. After the finishing touches, she must have carefully placed in on the table facing my room door as though it was greeting me "good morning!" She must have waited for me to come out half asleep but eventually got too excited and decided to wake me up.

All these, I could just be now romanticizing. But I will never forget the sad look in her eyes trying to wash away the sketches. They deeply felt sorry for having "destroyed" my toy. And her wrinkled hands I can still feel eventhough I didn't touch them. Since then, everytime I get mad at her, I just look back at the Ziggy incident and I find it easier to ease my anger.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

epilogue: I got maybe 5 or 6 more of those Ziggys (courtesy of Tang). Interestingly, the one involved in this anecdote is noticeably smaller than the others. I think it shrunk from being exposed to too much liquid. I still have them in my "favorite toy" closet in my mother's house. But this one, still having faint remnants of the blue ballpoint pen, remains my favorite Ziggy.