I Am Your Mother?

A while ago I stumbled across this retelling, helpfully tagged "children's stories made horrific":

Are You My Mother? by Mallory Ortberg, courtesy of the Toast.

I read it a few times, with a big ol' lump in my throat. Got me right in the gut. I felt it from both sides -- the horrible vulnerability of the little bird, the dog's desperation. Sometimes the membrane between this universe and the one where I didn't have Small Boy seems way too thin. I wonder if part of my drive to have more kids isn't wanting to put more distance between myself and that universe.

We were at the bookstore last week and I told Small Boy that he could pick out a book. He made a beeline for Are You My Mother? I visibly recoiled. "No, that one's creepy, don't get that."

He looked a bit disappointed and then, in his generally easy-going way, shrugged and said "You pick."

Well, didn't I feel like an awful mother then, inflicting my infertility-damage on Small Boy. I guiltily bought the book, and read it to him that night in the very brightest tones I could muster. And I'm going to keep reading him the goddamned thing until I can do it with a real smile.

Also, when we got home, I discovered we already had a copy. So now I have two copies. Okay, Universe, very funny. I get it.