The three little kittens, they lost their mittens.
(But they were having a perfectly marvellous time! They were dressed before lunch, playing together nicely, getting outdoors, playing with their Christmas toys, exercising, exploring nature, and staying out of their mother's hair.)
And they began to cry.
(Why? Mittens are fifty cents at the thrift store! And no mother worth her salt should ever have fewer than two replacement pairs. Per kitten.
And look how they remembered to bring back their toys, instead of leaving them in a muddy gully.
And they brought flowers.
These are good little kittens, so why do they cry?)
Probably because their mommy is a Nazi. Sitting there in her rocking chair, watching her stories, puffing on a cigar, and beating her little kitten arses at the slightest provocation. And probably stuffing her irritated little face with pie when no one is looking.
Sadist.
(Those poor kitties crawled around on their bellies for four days and nights without food or water, searching not for mittens- no. For love. From their own pathological mother. It's all they've ever known.)
She made them do that.
Keep on their mittens. And just wait for her chance to pounce all over them, hissing and spitting.
*sigh*. Could have saved them a whole lot of therapy, but it might be too late.
Then does mom even recognize their initiative with saving the environment- the sulphate free washing soap, the line drying? Does she bother to see how they've taken on responsibilities well beyond their two months?
Nope. She's inside, rearranging her spices, counting the minutes until cocktail hour when she'll put up her paws and watch "Breaking Amish"on TLC.
Selfish.
So she makes up some lame story about a rat so the kids will leave her to her distractions, addictions, compulsions.
Oh, she presents well for the annual family photo.
But we know.
We all know.
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9 comments:
You are brilliant. BRILLIANT!
Funny how we were raised on tales like The Three Kittens and their misguided mother or Noah's Ark with its preposterous story of death and destruction by a loving god - and maybe only half of the population gets therapy - the other half probably can't afford it.
Good work - had a great laugh, and then a great sigh of sadness at what we did to raise our own children.
I hope you are going to read this to your children first thing Monday morning.
Rosa
I read it to them on Friday.... Hence the blog post!
....no wonder we all need therapy...all that performance and conditional love...I knew I hated cats for a reason :)L-lew
A nursery rhyme book was a staple in every nursery. I think we appreciate them for their lyrical quality. I especially loved the story of Taffy the Welshman. Taffy (you may remember was a thief)and he received his punitive justice in stanza 3; it went something like this: "I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed. I took up a poker and threw it at his head." This was a favorite bedtime rhyme for those days when my children were being ostracized by other little miscreants in Sunday School (or maybe the Sunday School teacher himself). A marvelous way to train them to be proactive in such situations.
Awesome - will never read any fairy tale the same. The bible is a lot like that in a few places, too.
My goodnes, you have a way with words, you make me laugh and you make me wonder what i have been missing all these years.
Vicki
:) thanks. Trust me to find something insidious in that age old tale...
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