Many years ago, when the three-toed sloth was just a pre-teen sloth, he looked up into my all knowing eyes and asked me (back when I was still the smartest, most intelligent being in his world---amazing how stupid mothers become as kids age, huh?)...Anyway, my pre-pubescent sloth asked me:
"mysuestories-mama? Was the day I was born the happiest day of your life?"
Ahhh, a question to melt any mom across the universe. Of course, I may not be one of those moms.
My answer? "No, my little sloth. The day of your joyous brith was the second happiest day of my life."
"What was the first happiest day of your life, mysuestories-mama?"
"Why, the day you move out." I answered.
And it was. Many, many, many years later, as the sloth sprouted wings in some weird mystical mythological fantasy, and tested his wings and soared right out of our home. No mother was ever more proud. Or happy.
Then there was the yet another day of happiness. I got to clean his old bedroom. Proper, with bleach and rug cleaners, and sweet smelling sprays, in all the ways I had always wanted to, but had been inhibited by mountains of teen-boy paraphernaila and all it's accompanying odors.
And then? Then he came back home. Happiness? Yeh. But that room I cleaned and scoured for weeks? Pig sty in ten minutes. Sigh. Welcome home, indeed, dear sloth.
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