Chapter 8: — "It's Not Even Mother's Day!"

The kitchen smelled faintly of toasted bread and simmering soup. I was carefully stirring the pot on the stove, humming to myself, when I noticed a flurry of pink and blue blobs zipping around my ankles.

Poyo bounced excitedly on the tile floor, little globs wobbling with each hop. Mochi, smaller and calmer but equally gleaming, twirled beside it, making soft squelching noises.

“What are you two up to now?” I asked, carefully putting the spoon down. My hand went to mop up a tiny puddle Poyo had left behind when it slid across the counter.

Poyo tilted its blob-like head at me, its little face bright with excitement. It made a high-pitched “Poyoo!” noise, bouncing on the spot.

Mochi added a soft “Mochi!” and pointed at a stack of paper on the table, its tiny, round body wobbling back and forth like it could barely contain itself.

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh… you want to… draw something?”

Poyo gave an enthusiastic wobble and pointed at me again, then at the paper, then back at me, making a sound that could only mean yes yes yes!

Mochi echoed with a soft, hesitant “Mochi…” but the urgency in its tone left no doubt: they had a plan, and I was not allowed to intervene.

I laughed softly. “Alright, alright. Go ahead, then. But… don’t make a mess.”

They didn’t listen. Of course they didn’t.

Poyo grabbed a crayon, somehow balancing it between two gooey blobs, and started scribbling across the page with wild abandon. Mochi, trying to be precise, pressed its blue body down and dragged another crayon in a much straighter, more deliberate line, wobbling slightly with concentration.

Their little minds seemed entirely focused on one goal: a drawing of me holding both of them. I crouched down slightly to watch, smiling. Their earnestness was ridiculous. The tiny wobbles, the focused little squishes of their forms against the paper. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

“Are you trying to make me look scary or cute?” I asked, teasing gently, though I already knew it didn’t matter. They couldn’t answer in words, just high-pitched squeaks and gooey wobbles of pride.

Poyo bounced in excitement, leaving a little streak of pink slime across the table. “Poyoo!” it shouted as if it were explaining the meaning of life itself.

Mochi pressed its face close to the paper, carefully adding a scribbled circle that was supposed to be my head, and hummed softly, “Mochi…”

I chuckled and tried not to kneel over laughing. The concentration on their little faces was so intense it made me ache with affection.

Then came the pièce de résistance. Somehow, they decided it was important to add words.

“Poyo and Mochi. We love you mama… Happy mama’s day!”

I froze mid-step, hand hovering over the counter.

“…Mama’s day?” I whispered, more amused than anything. “You think it’s Mother’s Day?”

Poyo wobbled, pink globs vibrating, and bounced proudly on the spot. Mochi flopped slightly sideways, nodding eagerly, blue tendrils pointing at the words. Clearly, in their gooey little minds, it was the most important holiday in the universe.

And then they tried to draw me holding them.

I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Their “drawing”,  if you could even call that... was a wild mess of lines and blobs that somehow vaguely resembled me… if you squinted really, really hard. My arms were two sticks, my head a crooked circle, and their gooey little bodies were just smudges clinging to the sticks.

Poyo looked at the page, wobbling back and forth, and gave the proudest “Poyoo!” yet. Mochi nodded sagely, “Mochi…”

I had to cover my mouth. Oh god... this was so bad, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them. Their little faces were shining with pride, convinced they’d produced a masterpiece worthy of museums.

“Uh… it’s… beautiful,” I lied, voice soft, careful to keep the laughter trapped.

Poyo practically bounced off the floor in excitement. “Poyoo! Poyoo!”

Mochi let out a tiny happy “Mochi…” and wiggled in delight, wobbling its body like it was doing a little dance.

I peeked at the words again—“Happy mama’s day”—and finally spoke up, “Um… it’s… not even Mother’s Day you know?”

The two of them froze. Then, in perfect unison, they tilted toward me, confused.

“Mochi?”

“Poyoo?”

I smiled softly, heart melting despite myself. “Mother's Day was actually... around 6 months ago... but it’s okay. Thank you. I really love it”

They wobbled in sheer happiness, bouncing and twirling on the spot. Their joy was infectious. I felt a small lump in my throat.

It wasn’t the holiday, the day, or the “perfect” drawing that mattered. It was them. They thought of me as someone special, someone important in their little lives. I was their mama.

I carefully hung the paper on the fridge with a little magnet, thinking it would stay there. Even if it wasn’t Mother’s Day, even if the drawing was completely unrecognizable… it was perfect in its own chaotic, sticky, wobbly way.

And as Poyo bounced next to me, proud of its work, and Mochi wiggled in approval, I whispered softly, almost to myself:

“I'm a mom now...”