Ass

We never had very much money in my childhood; even with both parents working, we were on food stamps more often than not. Therefore, dollar stores played a big part in our lives. Not Dollar General, mind you - those were a bit too pricey for us. I am talking about the honest-to-goodness dollar establishments that carried a little bit of everything and nothing you really needed: toys of questionable origin, movies that might be reminiscent of a blockbuster, all the incense you could imagine, chintzy tchotchkes, and so, so much more.

When the holidays or birthdays came, my parents would give us a few dollars and let us loose in a dollar store to find presents we could give to people we loved. Finding the perfect gift is a high I chase to this day. Long after I became a teenager, and even as an adult, I scour these stores for treasure.

The year I was 18, I found the cutest ceramic nativity set: Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus, an angel, perhaps some wise men, and a sheep. However, the most important and adorable part of this set was the donkey. He was small, gray, and had the sweetest face. He was the clincher; I knew they had to come home with us.

We found a spot for him among our eclectic myriad of holiday decorations. I loved seeing the cutesy little faces - almost like Precious Moments figurines, but less creepy. More akin to the Little People toys I still swoon over in the toy aisle, though my babies are far too grown for them now.

But tragedy struck.

I do not remember the exact cause of the accident - dog related? Brother related? Quite possibly me related? - but the donkey’s leg broke clean off.

Luckily, being a house of 4 children, most of whom were accident prone, we happened to have a tube of superglue in the kitchen. I doused the leg, stuck it to the donkey, and leaned over to talk to mom as I held it together. When my sister wandered in to ask what was up, my conservative, religious, upright citizen mother shocked the hell out of me.

“Becca broke her ass.”

I nearly choked on the guffaw that came out of me. Mom snorted and her eyes sparkled; upright she may have been, but she loved nothing more than to get a laugh out of someone.

“It’s ok, though,” I wheezed. “I’m fixing my broke ass.”

Which tipped my mother over in laughter.

Mom and I shared a trait of distinctive laughter. When only slightly amused, she would actually say, “Ha, ha.” When being polite, she would give a soft laugh - just enough to make the other person feel appreciated. But when she was truly, genuinely delighted, mom’s would build up like a volcano, and then erupt in an explosion of snorts. I, on the other hand, laugh with my whole body, often doubled over - deep belly laughs that my children compare to a witch’s laughter.

The sounds coming from the kitchen could have warranted an exorcism.

And it was at this point, I realized I had glued the donkey to my hand.

“I can’t get my hand off my ass!”

“Your sister stuck her hand to her ass!”

I honestly cannot remember if my sisters and brother joined in the mirth, or if they rolled their eyes and walked away. 18 year old me with an undiagnosed anxiety disorder was vacillating between bouts of uncontainable laughter and worry that I would have an ass stuck to my hand for the rest of my life. Luckily, mom remembered that nail polish remover would also remove super glue; this would have been very useful information if we had any nail polish remover. Finding none sent us into another laughing fit. I ended up walking to the store with a piece of my ass attached to my finger to buy some, alternating between laughter and tears.

(Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion. - Truvy, Steel Magnolias)

Eventually, we removed the ass, repaired the ass, calmed down, and moved on to other things.

Occasionally, though, the donkey would pop up, and spur on another round of jokes.

“Rebecca! Get your ass off the table!”

“Mom! Why are you always mad at my ass?!?”

Throughout the years, we would find it and place it where the other would find it. We sent postcards to each other with donkeys, we would take pictures of donkey items and send them to each other, and when I graduated with my BA in education at 34, she gave me a card with a donkey in a graduation cap, with a message declaring I was “really a SMART ASS now!”

Mom and I had a rollercoaster of a relationship - one that I explore thoroughly in therapy as an adult. But even as I work through challenges and hardships and hurts, I know one thing.

She loved my ass.