I'm playing with toy cars in the living room. SpongeBob is chasing a jellyfish on TV. Mom is crying in the kitchen. My toy truck has a collision with my blue car. Two passengers. No death. One injured. There's fire everywhere. Watch out, the firefighters are coming. The fire turns into smoke, then into clouds. Mom has her hands on her face. The fire is dead. I drive my fire truck on the floor. It goes through the wooden floor, then the tiles. Its plastic wheels are noisy on each tile. It runs up the table legs, crosses the placemats, and drives up to Mom. I don't know any truck that can dry tears. At least, I tried. She smiles. But not her eyes.
I should find something. There are so many things to do to put out a fire, Dad told me. Pour water on it. Put a blanket on it. Roll on the ground. But what about water? When it's flooded, what do we do? Do we throw a sponge in it? But, a sponge that big doesn't exist. You would need a whole store of sponges. Or you'd have to find the leak. But finding a leak in a completely flooded house isn't easy. In the meantime, I run my fire truck on her arm. She hugs me. But it doesn't seem like this hug is for me. So, I run my truck on her stomach. I turn back to my toy box. SpongeBob is over. Scooby-Doo is starting. I stay in the living room to play. When it's silent, my favorite room is the living room. When it's silent, I don't like the kitchen. The fridge noises aren't loud enough to cover up Mom. The silence is too loud. I turn up the TV volume. And I make my car crashes even more explosive. There we go. I can only hear the Scooby-Doo music now. That's better. I've been Mom's sweetheart since Dad went on a business trip. I can watch all the cartoons I want. I eat pasta every day. Mom doesn't even check if I brush my teeth anymore, so I pretend. I go to the bathroom and wait for three minutes. Just before coming out, I put a drop of mouthwash on my tongue just in case she asks me to smell it, but she never does. I slip under the covers quickly and close my eyes tightly. If I'm asleep, she won't send me back to the bathroom. Plus, since Dad is away, I can sleep with her. In her huge bed. Even if we have to share it, just my side is much bigger than my entire bed. So, I sleep like a starfish. And I have room to bring Plushy, Mr. Frog, and Teddy with me. I can't just leave them behind. My stuffed animals also deserve to experience the luxury of the big bed. When I'm cold, I cuddle up to Mom. During the night, we turn into LEGO pieces, all intertwined with each other. Mom gives me a hug, and I hug Plushy, who hugs Mr. Frog, who hugs Teddy. When Mom sleeps, she doesn't cry. She sleeps, as always. Her breathing tickles my nose. The warm air prevents me from falling asleep. So, I move lower. The warm air in my hair doesn't bother me. When she sleeps, she reminds me of whales in the water. Like I saw on TV. They're slow. Heavy. But they don't look mean. They swim in slow motion. Mom, she's asleep. Heavy. Breathing in slow motion. I could be afraid of the dark in Mom's room. But her breathing becomes my nightlight. It sounds like the ocean. Mom taught me how to listen in seashells. Did she know she was one too? When we go to the sea, her hair curls. Maybe mermaids do exist. She's standing in front of the oven. I'm coloring. I press the crayon with all my strength to fill the silence. The pasta water bubbles, but she doesn't seem to notice. Steam forms clouds that reach the ceiling. I draw a cloud. Mom cooks with her hands. She doesn't need to look for the spices, salt, or spoons. Her hands move on their own because they already know. It's like she's an octopus chef. I approach to watch her. Butter, cream, cheese, salt, pepper. And a tear. The pasta will be too salty. Mom's eyelashes look like they're melting on her cheeks. Grandma told me that the more you cry, the more the color of your eyes fades away. Maybe it's true. Mom's eyes are black. I find Mom pretty when she doesn't do it on purpose. When she gets ready to go out to a restaurant, she puts on makeup. Her eyes are darker. Her mouth is redder. Her hair is smoother. I find her eyes too dark. Her mouth too red. Her hair too smooth. My mom, I find her in her curly bun. I recognize her in her snowman pajamas. I find her in her naked eyes. In the little mole next to her eye. I recognize her in her ham and cheese pasta. And in her grimaces. I don't know where to find a truck that dries eyes. So, I pretend it's a fire. I go to the living room to get my blanket, and I wrap it around us. Mom, to kill the fire, you have to roll. You have to pat the flames. So we roll up in the blanket. We pat ourselves to extinguish the fire. We wrap ourselves up on the couch. In the end, I think it works a little. We turn on the TV. Bambi is about to start. My favorite moment when we watch movies is the opening credits. The big fairy music. The text moving on the screen. The voices of Disney's choristers. All of that long enough to get comfortable. Just enough time to grab the big blankets. The time for mom to turn off the light. She leaves only a small lamp on. It looks like campfire light. While we wrap ourselves up in the covers, dad brings candies. It's often peanut M&M's. He eats three at once. I eat them one by one. I cut them in half to see if there really is a peanut inside. One time, there was two in one. Twins. Mom, she always sits with a pillow in her arms. Sometimes, I am the pillow. Since dad's not here anymore, there are no more M&M's. I wait for mom to offer them herself. I don't want to ask. I don't know if she forgot or if she doesn't want them. Since dad's not here anymore, mom keeps a pillow in her arms. Even when she sleeps. Especially when she sleeps. Now, the opening credits look more like the end of the movie. The darkness. And the little eyes. Last week, I learned to take the bus all by myself. Normally, dad would drive me. When he couldn't, mom would take the bus with me. But one morning, right in front of the bus stop, she crouched down to talk to me softly. Listen, my big boy. She always says that when she wants to tell me something. Mostly adult stuff. Listen, my big boy. I still call you that, but this time it's true. You are big boy. A big boy who can take the bus all by himself. Like we've done thousands of times. I was going to cry, I think, and I felt my eyes getting wet, but they didn't shed a tear. Because she cried before me. Just before my tear fell. Hers tears were already on her coat. Mom, it's just the bus, you don't have to cry about that. She doesn't respond. Maybe there's something other than the bus. She looked at me as if she was going to say something else, but she didn't. The bus opens the doors. I get on. Beep. The bus wasn't far enough yet. I saw mom with her hand over her mouth. I think she was crying. Even more than I did when I fell off my bike for the first time. I think I grew up that day. I grew up without gaining a single inch. I never want to do it again. I like to draw. I draw all the time when I'm bored. I don't know if I'm doing it right. But I do it. Mom tells me it's pretty. She hangs them on the fridge. Every week, the fridge changes. The colors move. But mom is always there. I give her long hair so we can recognize her. I draw dad too. Grandma and grandpa, sometimes. But always mom. In this drawing, I made all four of us. Mom, dad, me, and Plushy. We're all holding hands. Behind us is the house. I was thirsty, so I poured myself a glass of apple juice. All by myself, like a big boy. I didn't forget to close the fridge this time. My drawing was folded in half. You could only see mom and me. The house is halfway folded. Even Plushy disappeared. Dad's crayon hand is cut off. Maybe she loves me more than she loves dad. I'm not away on a trip. I'm here. I offer her blankets. And lots of hugs. Look, dad. She loves me. And I don't even need to buy her flowers. Once, I had a very bad nightmare. I can't remember what scared me, I just knew it was terrifying. I spent the whole rest of the week in bed with Mom. After a while, she gave me a gift. It was a secret. A secret that children don't know about. She told me that as you grow up, a mouse appears. She lives in the walls of your room. She doesn't make any noise, sometimes we never even get to see it. But everybody has one. It's the dream keeper mouse. During the night, it catches nightmares with its tiny net, and they burst into dust. They do this because dust helps them hide better. That's why, even if we're very clean, dust always comes back. And that's also why we wake up with heavy eyelashes. All adults have one, Mom told me. It's the quantity of nightmares that attracts them. So, does that mean only children have nightmares? Yes, because they're mouse hasn't moved in yet. Except for you. I'll give you my mouse. That night, we installed a small Lego door on my bedroom wall. I cut her a little welcome mat from a tissue. So she would feel welcome. Since then, I haven't had any more nightmares. And the dust still comes back from time to time on my bookshelf. Now, it's Mom who comes into my bed. Even though it's very small. It's okay, Mom. It can be our mouse. We can share it. Even though it's very small. The other day, I did the worst naughtiness of my life. I didn't even mean to. I just wanted to make a magic potion. Lately, I've learned to take my bath by myself. In the end, it's not that different. It's just that before, Mom used to sit beside me. Now, it's my teddy bear who watches over me. I leave him sitting on the toilet seat. I tell him everything I would have told Mom. Except he doesn't stop me from making bubbles or splashing around. It was his idea to make a potion, by the way. Since I'm growing up anyway, I might as well speed up the process. So, I mixed various things while the water was running. The foam kept rising and rising and wouldn't stop. At first, it created a mountain in the bathtub. I could stand in it as if it were a pile of leaves. Then it started overflowing. On the tiles, on the walls, on the shower mat. It was already too late when I turned off the water. It was everywhere. Even on Plushy. Mom knocked on the door to tell me that dinner was ready. I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to move all the foam into the bath. She came in. I froze like a squirrel. I'm sure my heart was bouncing in my chest like Sylvester's facing the bulldog. I looked at her. She looked at me. She looked at the foam. Silence. I didn't move. I stood there with my arms full of foam. And just like that, she laughed. I forgot she had dimples. At first, I thought it was a sob. She had her hand on her forehead as if she was upset. But then, she started laughing. First softly, then gradually, very quickly and very loudly. Like the applause in her TV show. She laughed very loudly. I still didn't move. I was waiting for her laughter to turn diabolical and for her to punish me. After a while, she was laughing so much that she ended up on her knees. So I started laughing too. She threw a handful of foam at me. I threw an even bigger one back at her, and she threw an even bigger one again. The battle began. As if we were at the park during the holidays. Wet hair. Soapy beards. Sticky clothes. Screams turning into laughter. Bathroom echoes. She grabbed me and got into the bath with me. Even though she was fully dressed. She was shouting as if she were a mommy Godzilla. My plastic ducks turned into airplanes. My hands turned into atomic bombs landing in the water. The bathroom turned into a stormy sea. But a cloudless storm. A sunny storm. I knew that our screams and laughter could be heard outside the bathroom. All the way up to the living room, even to the kitchen. A bit muffled by the door. No door would be big enough to hide our laughs. Mom put our pajamas in the dryer. It felt like putting on a freshly baked apple pie. And we ate cookies while watching Tom & Jerry. Mom fell asleep before me. The pillows were dry. It was the biggest naughtiness I ever did. But by far the best. Get some rest, little mouse. Tonight, you can sleep peacefully. Now, Mom does naughty stuff with me too. She hardly punishes me anymore. When she found me in her room, I had taken out all of dad's shirts. I wanted to dress up as a detective, but none of them really worked. So, maybe when she found me, I was swimming in a mountain of shirts. She should have said something. Scolded me. Sighed. Something. Instead, she went to get scissors. Why not a zombie costume instead? Zombies are much cooler than detectives. But I wanted to be a detective. I didn't have time to tell her. She started cutting randomly. Sleeves. Holes. Ties. She handed me the scissors. Come help me. I cut, she tore. It reminded me of when we used to make paper snowflakes. The concentrated silence and all the little white bits falling. I didn't know you could tear shirts like paper. I thought it was only in movies. So, I tried. I couldn't do it. Mom, she could. I had never noticed how strong she was. I eventually stopped cutting. We had enough costumes for my whole classroom. I needed to pee, so I went to the toilet. There was a ladybug on the window. Tiny. Almost orange. Ladybugs don't live in bathrooms. It avoided my finger at first but ended up crawling onto it. I took it to the garden, protecting it with my hand. As if I were carrying a candle with a tiny flame. I walked on the grass in my socks. I stopped near Mom's tulips. It climbed onto a pink tulip. I stayed crouched there until it flew away. When I went back into the house, SpongeBob was playing on the still-on TV. I watched for a while standing up and eventually sat down. When the credits appeared, I remembered that I had forgotten about Mom. The bedroom door had remained open. She had her back to me, still cutting the shirts. Her movements were noisy. And rough. Her back looked like it was growing scary wings. She leans over the shirts like lions lean over antelopes in documentaries. Her scissored hands are shaky. But there were no more shirts. Just buttons and ties confettis. She kept cutting anyway. Just like I do when I keep cutting my spaghettis endlessly. She sniffled. A lot. She sniffled as if she had a cold. As if the white pieces were her mountain of tissues or a mountain of pollen. I closed the door. She sniffled even louder. Even through the door. I think I heard a few noises. Like a crying dog. I went back to the garden. I changed rooms, I changed the channel. It's the wildlife documentaries channel that I like the most. But I've watched it too much. Ladybugs are said to bring good luck. She should have flown into the bedroom. It was right next door. Look, Mom. I made pasta all by myself. I put on the apron. I took my bath too, without you having to ask. I took my bath, and I even used the grown-up foamy soap. I didn't make a mess this time. I brushed my teeth. With the spicy grown-up toothpaste. Look, Mom. I'm all clean. I smell good. And it's not even eight o'clock. I put my clothes in the laundry basket. My plate is in the sink. The oven is turned off. My toys are put away. Look, Mom. I'm in bed. With Plushy. Can you read me a story now? I've done everything. You can read me a story. We don't have to finish it. We don't even have to read the last pages. And they lived happily ever after and had lots of children. We don't have to go that far. Anyway, the dragon part is my favorite. Or, read me Little Red Riding Hood. There's no prince in it. They still end up happy. Look, Mom, how clean my room is. My night light is on. I made room for you in my bed. I put away most of my plushies so you could have some room. There's not much, but just enough. Look, Mom. Look at me. Ask me if I brushed my teeth. Smell my breath. My toy truck is out of batteries.
Cleo Jacob
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