Maybe She's Born With It, Maybe It's Maybelline

By Anne Chudobiak

"The mouse," says my mother the morning of the twenty-sixth. "It's cordless. There's a base. For recharging."

She's talking to me, the Grinch, I mean, introvert, who went straight to the computer after gleefully putting the children down--"Just one story, tonight." Frances, the badger. It doesn’t get better than that.

"I forgot," I say from the bathroom, where I am forcing my daughter's hair into an elastic. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," says my mother, her tone even more neutral than mine.

"What?" shrieks my daughter, escaping my grasp. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I tell her, waving a ribbon. "Come back."

"The 'puter," she says. "You broke it?"

"No," I say.

"Of course not," says my mother. "Don't be silly."

"The mouse," I say. "It's cordless."

"There's a base," says my mother.

"Oh," says my daughter. "That's it?"

"Yeah," I say, pulling her in.

"Nice," says my mother, admiring the bow. "Do you always do it like that?"