I am not a mother and I don’t want to be. That’s why I stopped having sex. I know I could use birth control… but the pill makes me bitchy and I hate condoms. I can barely take care of myself let alone a child; so vetoing sex seemed like a good way to avoid that responsibility. While we are dancing around the subject, I am also not YOUR mother. That’s why we didn’t work, you and me. You are an infant who needed constant supervision and I couldn’t be that person. I didn’t carry you in my womb for nine months, so why were you always looking up at me with worried eyes? I wanted a boyfriend, not a kid. Shit! I wanted a man, not a baby. I am not a mother. I don’t brush hair, make lunches, or do carpool. I don’t read bedtime stories, or offer words of encouragement. I may be there to give you a bottle but it was never milk and sadly, I think that’s what you were wishing for while you watched me pour stiff drinks. And when I blared Zeppelin at night while drinking my stiff drinks, I think you were hoping for a lullaby… but it ain’t me babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me you’re lookin’ for, babe. Ha! even Dylan wasn’t soft enough for you. I remember one time you called me Janis, a supposed reference to my love of whiskey. Who cares that I like whiskey… oh wait, you cared. That wasn’t lady like. Who said I was a lady? Truth be told, I never saw the need… you were lady enough for the both of us, dude. No, I am not a mother, and I am certainly not your mother, and although one day I may be someone’s mother, I will never be yours, my friend, and that’s why we didn’t work, you and me. Because I am daisy. I am a yellow centered, white petaled daisy some fancy hearted loafer picked and put in their hair. I am a daisy that sits dainty in a braid waiting for the wind to take her somewhere new. I am a turquoise stone that fell out of a ring and has been rolling ever since. A turquoise stone that pretends to know the stories of Cherokees and Peyote but really came from a cracker jack box… (but let’s keep that between you and me). Yeah, I am a daisy… that floated through Woodstock, inhaling what was to be inhaled, while passing through the strings of Jimi’s guitar as he strummed Purple Haze with magical—turquoise—adorned—fingers. This is my make believe, these are my bedtime stores, and that is why I am not a mother.