Chapter 1

Friday night, I had just finished chopping the onions for my dinner recipe when Mom came home from work. I heard the front door slam, but she didn't call out to me as she usually does, and I didn't hear her walking to the back of the house as she usually does. Her habit is to make a bee-line for her bedroom to change out of her work clothes.

I went looking for her after I'd put the bulgur on to soak—and found her in the living room, looking like she'd crashed into the couch at high speed. She was slouching like a teen-ager, with her butt nearly on the edge of the cushion. Her shoes were off, her legs stuck out straight and splayed, and the loose toes of her nylons flopped disconsolately toward the floor. Her usually tidy bun hung loosely to one side and stray wisps of hair clung to her damp neck. The wrinkled tails of her blouse lay untucked on her skirt.

"Holy cow, Mom," I said. "Bad day at work?"

"I've had it. I've just plain had it up to here," she said, placing the side of her hand over her eyebrows.

She didn't offer to elaborate, so after a few seconds, I asked. "Anything in particular, or is this just a general purpose melt-down?"

"I'm tired of being responsible. For nearly as long as I can remember, I've been responsible. I was a responsible child for my parents: I minded my behavior, didn't get in trouble, and did what I was told. I was a responsible student for my teachers: I always got to class on time, I took careful notes, and turned in all my assignments. I was a responsible wife for my husband: I cooked his meals, ironed his shirts, and encouraged him when he was down—until he started screwing around with his secretary, anyway, the son of a bitch. I've been a responsible mother for my son: I bathed you, fed you, and dressed you when you were little. I packed your lunch, made sure you had a jacket when it was cold, and went to all your assemblies when you were in elementary school. Even now, I make sure you're up in time for —

"It's summer vacation, Ma," I said. "You don't have to get me up."

"When school's in session, I make sure you're up in time. I cook —

"Ma, I cook dinner most of the time now, remember?"

"Well, I cooked dinner for you before you got old enough to help out. And I launder your crusty—

"Mom! My sheets aren't—

Mom showed me a kittenish smile. I felt the tips of my ears start to heat up and didn't say anything.

"And I launder your crusty sheets," Mom repeated, just to rub it in.

"I'm a responsible employee for my boss," she continued. "I hardly ever miss a day of work, I don't do anything that might show my boss in a bad light, and I complete all my projects without complaint. I'm a responsible manager for my ten direct reports, eight women and two men: I balance the workload among them and try to make assignments suit their strengths. I put up with macho bullshit from the men to support them and keep their output up; I listen to the women bitch and whine about every goddam little thing in their miserable lives and pat them on the shoulder to support them and keep their output up. It's stressful. It's wearing me down and making me old before my time."

I was starting to get worried. Mom tended to be an optimist and didn't spend a whole lot of time complaining about the little adversities of life. "You're not going to quit your job and run away with the circus, or something, are you?"

"No, not that bad," she said, "not quite. But I am going to take a vacation from responsibility. I told my boss that I won't be in next week, and for the next nine days—from now until a week from Monday—I'm not going to be responsible for anything. I'm going to be a little girl who can just play all day long."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "You've certainly earned the time off. Enjoy it."

"I'm going to need your help, though."

Mom and I had helped each other through the rough times after Dad split and had become accustomed to supporting each other when one of us was down, so I didn't see a problem here. "Sure," I said.

"Thinking this all the way through," Mom said, turning her head to lock her gaze on me, "I came to the logical conclusion that if I'm going to be a little girl and not responsible for anything, you have to be responsible for me."

I scratched my head. "I already do most of the cooking and housework," I said. "I'll add the laundry to my list of chores, if you want."

"There's a lot more to being responsible for a little girl than just keeping up the house." Mom said.

I began to think that maybe there was a problem after all. "You've got to be kidding," I said. I could see Mom's taking a week off just to lie around the house and do nothing or even eat cookies before dinner, if she wanted to. But I couldn't imagine what taking care of her beyond cooking and cleaning up the house and maybe doing the laundry would entail.

"I'm not kidding," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I've been responsible for you for seventeen years, and now I want you to be responsible for me for nine days. Just nine crummy days. Is that too much to ask?"

"I didn't sign up for this," I said, starting to pace around the living room. "It's all your idea. What on earth made you decide that I'd go along with it? It seems like the least you could have done was ask me first."

"Well," Mom said, "in nine days, I won't be an irresponsible little girl any more, and you're going to be wanting concessions from your mother."

She was, unfortunately, right about that. Isn't that how it always goes with parents and teen-agers? The dice are definitely loaded.

She apparently took my silence for ignorance and started ticking items off with her fingers. "Use of the car, allowance, help affording a tux and corsage for the senior ball..."

"Have you forgotten that I'm an only child, Mom? I don't know anything about taking care of kids, and I know absolutely nothing at all about little girls. I've never even been around little girls." No cousins, no neighbors, no nothing. Only what I had seen at school.

"Don't worry," Mom said. "I'll help you out if you get stuck. It'll be good practice for when you have a little girl of your own."

I folded my arms across my chest and tried staring her down. Mom put on a look of theatrical innocence. "All right," I said. "I'll give it a try. But there has to be an escape hatch somewhere. Maybe I'll run away and join the circus."

"Good," Mom said, with a real smile. "I am now a little girl, and you have to tell me what to do next."

This felt like jumping off the pier without water wings. I thought back to my elementary school days. "Okay," I said, "you'd better go change into your play clothes. Put anything that needs washing into the hamper and hang up your skirt so it doesn't get wrinkled."

Mom clapped her hands and said, brightly, "Okay," and skipped off down the hall.

I went back to the kitchen and started putting the casserole together. I'd browned the beef, sautéed the mushrooms, and was just starting to soften the onions when Mom came into the kitchen, wearing a pair of baggy, faded pink shorts and a sleeveless jersey so tight that about half her breasts were squeezing out the armholes. My face warmed, my mouth dried, and my balls began to tingle. I wanted to stare, but I looked away, both embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

"Mom, why aren't you wearing bra?" I choked out.

"Little girls don't wear bras," Mom said, "and you can't call me mom any more. My name is Samantha."

I guess that was all well and good, but Mom is not a little girl in the chest department. She wasn't a gross double-D or anything, but she had been quite adequately endowed. Substantially more than a handful. As I looked back at her, her nipples hardened into little tents in the cloth and the tingle in my balls started to spread into my cock.

I gave her a hard responsible person scowl and shook my head. "Why don't you go play or watch TV for a little while. It won't be long until dinner." And off she skipped to the family room.

When Mom's being Mom, we both participate in the after-dinner clean up in the kitchen, but Samantha said that she was too young to be allowed to handle the dishes and glassware and went back to the television. After I got the dishes taken care of, I went to the family room and found her industriously setting up a game of Chutes and Ladders.

"I want to play a game," she said, giving me her child eyes again.

So we played two games of Chutes and Ladders, with Mom apparently really getting into it. She screamed when she took a tumble backward and beat her fists on her thighs and squealed when she got ahead. She wanted to play a third game, but I couldn't take any more. Chutes and Ladders must be the most boring game in the world for anybody over the age of four.

After that, I didn't know what to do next, so I asked Mom for help.

"You have to tell me to go take a bath and get ready for bed," she said.

So I said, "Samantha, it's time for you to go take your bath and get ready for bed," and Mom happily ran off for the bathroom. And when I say she ran, I mean she ran, just like a little kid.

I rounded up the Chutes and Ladders pieces. As I was putting the game away, I realized that I hadn't heard the bath water running, so I went to the bathroom to check. I found Mom standing in front of the mirror, making faces at herself. She turned to me and said, "Ugugugugugugug" while she pulled the corners of her mouth wide with hooked little fingers and stuck out her tongue. I couldn't help but laugh. Mom was doing an excellent job of being a little girl.

"Okay, you got me with that one," I said. "Now, why aren't you in the bathtub?"

"You have to start the water and then undress me," she said.

"Undress you? Uh, Mo—

"Samantha!" she said.

"Samantha, I'll turn on the water, but I think you're a big enough girl to undress yourself."

"Am not," she said, with a pout.

"Samantha, how old are you?"

"This many," Mom said, holding up four fingers.