Planting Seeds

Mickey Mouse

                I loved Mickey Mouse as a kid! Not a little little kid, but a just-entering-my-teens-but-I-don’t-really-want-to-grow-up kid. I painted the bottom of my bedroom black and the top of my room white. I found a Mickey Mouse border and put it around the middle of my room. For my 14th birthday or 15th Christmas (they’re so close together, it’s hard to remember), I got a Mickey Mouse bed set. I don’t know exactly what it was that I loved, but I loved Mickey Mouse.

                My parents didn’t see a problem with my quickly-developed obsession with Mickey Mouse. I imagine they were somewhat relieved that it was Mickey Mouse rather than boys (I wasn’t disinterested in boys…just kind of waiting for them to catch up in height!). “Boys will see her Mickey Mouse room and run!” I imagine they told each other. We went to Disneyland when I was 15, but not before then… coincidence? Maybe.

                Between the two of them, my parents would have knocked Einstein’s socks off with their intelligence! At 16, my brother told some tattoo artist that he was 18 and got a Red Dog tattoo. He thought he hid it for a couple of years. I took the opposite approach and told my parents that I wanted a Mickey Mouse tattoo. My mom said, “Do you really want to grow old with Mickey Mouse getting older and older on you? You’ll be an old lady with a wrinkly Mickey Mouse? Do you really think you will love Mickey Mouse forever? Is there really any symbol you are certain you will always want permanently stitched on your skin?”

                “Of course!” but the seed of doubt had been planted.

                The following Christmas, as I was beginning to tug the tape off of a hand-sized gift, my mom groaned. “Keep in mind that your dad has a warped sense of humor,” she said. “That’s from him, not us,” she added.

                “What the heck?” I thought. “His humor is strange, but I think my humor is a lot like Dad’s, but as I looked in the little box and saw Mickey Mouse stuck in a mouse trap, I thought, “What the heck?! That’s just mean!” and the seed sprouted and was growing.

                I never did get a Mickey Mouse tattoo. Actually, I never did get any tattoo. My brother covered his big Red Dog with an enormous lion head, and the sprouted seed of doubt had grown into a small plant. By the time he verbally shared the fact that he regretted getting the first one and then feeling obligated to cover it with something and settling on the second one, the little seedling had turned into a humungous tree!

                What do I permanently want stitched to my body? Well… until August 6, 2010 when we found out Mom needed hospice care and death was inevitable, nothing. There was no mark I permanently wanted on my body. I don’t have a tattoo of her face or name or breast cancer ribbon or birthday, but I know that with me in some way at all times, I need my family and friends, and in those relationships, I will carry the wisdom and strength of both of my parents. I want to be able to say to Addie Lu when we are in Disneyland Paris with Michelle and Haven in 14 years or so, “I know you love him, but will you always love Mickey Mouse? Do you really want a wrinkly old mouse on your ankle or hip when you are an old lady?” and I want her to say, “Of course!” because then I will know that Grammy planted the seed! And for Christmas that year, right before her birthday, she will receive a Mickey Mouse stuck in a mouse trap, and at that time, Grandpa will be watering that seed of doubt!