I’m Her Mom, not a Babysitter
Standing in the checkout line at Dollar Tree, my gaze fixated on the forbidden treasures Mama always warned me not to touch. Colorful lighters, lollipops in a myriad of flavors, and bags of trendy, animal-shaped rubber bands that the kids at school went crazy for—all priced at a single dollar. Yet, these checkout delights paled in comparison to the true marvel of the store. The candy-painted metal machines were positioned at the border between the scorching asphalt and the heavy summer air from the outside world, and the dingy, fluorescent lights mingled with the distinct aroma of cheap plastics and diluted cleaning supplies of the store’s interior. It was here, in this bargain store, that the ultimate sanctuary awaited—the quarter machines. Overflowing with useless, disposable trinkets destined for the trash and stale candy that was older than me, these machines provided solace for any bored child with an extra coin. Sticky hands, sparkly temporary tattoos, and acrylic rings swirled with an array of vibrant colors, glistening like precious diamonds—at least in the eyes of a wide-eyed five-year-old like me.
My eyes locked with Mama’s. Perhaps it was years of motherly intuition, the look on my
face, or the subconscious tug on her hand towards the machines of magic. She knew exactly what I was going to ask.
“Can I please?” I asked, placing my small hands together as if in prayer to the spare
change gods. “Have a quarter for the machines?” Thinking fast on my feet and trying to sweeten the deal, I threw out what I deemed as a fair trade, “You can get a ring too, so we can match!” Surely such an enticing offer could not be ignored.
Mama’s kind eyes smiled behind her glasses. She held my small hand in hers, guiding us out of the way of the checkout line to a place where my childish plea would not be a disturbance to the other customers. “Let me check if I have any quarters in my wallet first, baby.” Her thin fingers reached into what seemed like an unending void of a purse—it had anything you could ever need—sifting through the change pocket in her shiny black wallet. Time seemed to pass slower as the clanking of coins rumbled loudly in my brain. Her question broke my concentration, “How much are the rings again?”
“They’re,” my eyes shifted over to the bright red machine, trying to concentrate on the yellow price sign, not its shiny wares, “only fifty cents!” I added.
“And how many quarters are in fifty cents?”
“Two quarters!”
“How many are there here?” She grabbed my hand in hers, opening my fist and placing
the quarters within it with her free hand. I looked down at my closed fist, begging, praying
silently that it would be at least four quarters. We had to match! I slowly opened my hand in
excitement, looking at the silver coins sitting in my palm. Onetwothreefourfivesix! Six quarters!
“Mama! There’s six of them! We can get three rings! WecanmatchandthenI’llstill have extras and—”
“Slow down, Sweetie, I can barely understand what you’re saying! I swear you talk
quicker than your father.” She finished her sentence with a smile and a soft laugh, ruffling my
hair with her hand.
Mama stood tall above my small frame. Her warm presence got smiles wherever we
went. She didn’t look much like me. A lot of people would mistake her for my babysitter! She
would frequently tell me how much she wished she had a shirt that proclaimed, “I’m not her
babysitter. I’m her MOM!”
This probably stemmed from the fact that my skin didn’t match Mama’s. It didn’t match
a lot of the girls at school either. While they had spotless pale skin that turned rosy pink after
running around during recess on the blacktop, mine was far from pale. My skin rarely blushed
like theirs and wasn’t spotless either; darkened knees and legs peppered with purple and blue
spots showed my adventures playing down by the creek. But just like Mama, I had
something special on my skin—freckles. Sprinkled across my forearms, they formed a
constellation of tiny stars as if each freckle had its own story. On some days I would look at
them, trying to connect the dots like the pages in my tattered activity books. Mama would lean
over me, touching my arm affectionately, “You know, there’s a butterfly hidden right…there!”
she said as she pressed her finger into a cluster of dark brown speckles.
“Nuh-uh!” I protested, squinting my eyes as if it would help the butterfly pop off of my skin.
“Uh-huh!” Mama said, laughing and pointing again. “It’s right here. It grew from just a
little worm, into a beautiful, free butterfly.” Her eyes met with mine right before she kissed my
forehead. “Just like you! My little butterfly.”
Unlike Mama’s shoulder-length brown hair that sparkled red in the sun, mine was
straight, long, and black; it didn’t do anything cool in the sunlight—quite the opposite. It
absorbed the sun’s rays, heating up enough to fry an egg. Mama had captivating blue eyes you
could see right into, framed by smile lines left from years of laughter. In contrast, my eyes were
dark brown, almost black, not much to look into; Mama assured me my eyes were special and
unique on their own. I just wasn’t able to see it.
Even if we looked so different, Mama said I was prettier than her. I couldn’t believe it! She would braid my hair in the mornings and tell me that, even if I had a lot of my Papa’s features, I had inherited all her attitude and spirit. I would learn when I was older that my freckles and personality were not the only thing I inherited from her, as a doctor would tell me I had an arrhythmic heart—the same as hers.
I dragged Mama towards the machines, putting my weight onto my toes to see the full
display of acrylic accessories. Fuschia pinks with lots of hearts, neon yellows with fiery orange, deep onyx rings with a hint of gold—all so opulent!
“What one do you want, Mama?” I asked.
She bent down, resting her hand on her chin in deep contemplation. “I think I’d be okay
with any of them if we wear them together.”
I eagerly popped two quarters in the shining silver slot of the machine, turning the
handle. My ears were happy to hear the satisfying clunk of the plastic ball containing my riches
as it survived the perilous journey to the prize shoot; the other two capsules followed similarly,
only stopping with a duller clunk on top of their prior neighbors. I cracked open the colorful
plastic containers only to find two rings that were not advertised on the board!
“Mama, look!” I exclaimed, raising my hands up so she could see the rings. One was the
alluring black and gold ring advertised, while the other two were different shades of vivid yellows with emerald stripes of green—resembling the intricate swirls in a marble—one of the rings was slightly thinner than the other. “If we wear the yellow ones, we can match!”
“What one should I wear then?” Mama’s hand reached out to touch the cool plastic in my hand, absentmindedly seeing how they would fit on her adult-sized fingers.
“This one!” I excitedly slid the thinner ring onto her pointer finger, putting the larger ring on my ring finger.
“Thank you, baby. Now let’s get home to make dinner before Papa gets off work.” Mama gently slipped the other ring into the bottom of the purse and happily grabbed my hand and the groceries in her other hand.
We stepped out of the store into the humid summer air, but it didn’t bother me. I was too
focused on Mama’s hand in mine; our shiny new rings would occasionally clink together while
we walked to the car. Like my Mama and me, the rings were slightly different colors and sizes. I
didn’t care what people might say, they matched perfectly to me, and that’s all that mattered.
Author Statement: Michaela seeks to tell a narrative story dripping with descriptive diction, reminiscing on a time with her late mother. Perhaps simple, mundane moments in everyday life can be important as well.