I don’t think Alex feels the same way about her mom, but this poem gives all the feels for those who do.
The LanyardBY BILLY COLLINSThe other day I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this room,moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,when I found myself in the L section of the dictionarywhere my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelistcould send one into the past more suddenly—a past where I sat at a workbench at a campby a deep Adirondack lakelearning how to braid long thin plastic stripsinto a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyardor wear one, if that’s what you did with them,but that did not keep me from crossingstrand over strand again and againuntil I had made a boxyred and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,and I gave her a lanyard.She nursed me in many a sick room,lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.Here are thousands of meals, she said,and here is clothing and a good education.And here is your lanyard, I replied,which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,strong legs, bones and teeth,and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.And here, I wish to say to her now,is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,but the rueful admission that when she tookthe two-tone lanyard from my hand,I was as sure as a boy could bethat this useless, worthless thing I woveout of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Having a kid can be terrifying, for all sorts of physical, emotional, and financial reasons. Even if you are ready and say you want one and actually work to have one, it is daunting. I think this arc is remarkably astute for a comic strip in conveying the mix of emotions that come with a possible pregnancy.
Maybe, since Dad is keen to go, and there is no refund so Piro and Tara are already paid for, AND she is there early, she can have Dad jump with her…. and maybe even Mom.
What. None of you have felt you are the toxic person in a relationship and need to leave for the benefit of the other? Lucky you. Time for Bets to reevaluate her priorities, without making someone wait it out for her. Is it running away? Yes. Is that bad? Dunno. But I wouldn’t say this is entirely a selfish act on her part.
Here is some advice to Greg: when designing a costume for a character, which will be worn over a several-week-long story arc, make it simple and easy to draw. He must be spending most of his time each panel just drawing frills.
Both Bets and Tiffany were in the wrong. They never resolved the conflict when the dinner was ordered. Comics don’t have a lot of space or interest to have drawn-out negotiations, and the whole idea was to set up conflict anyways, so, like, the lack of resolution wasn’t something that stood out as unexpected in a panelled strip. Point is, there are lots of fingers to point in this. I wonder if Ox, TJ, and the harpist will get paid?
I don’t think Alex feels the same way about her mom, but this poem gives all the feels for those who do.
The LanyardBY BILLY COLLINSThe other day I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this room,moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,when I found myself in the L section of the dictionarywhere my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelistcould send one into the past more suddenly—a past where I sat at a workbench at a campby a deep Adirondack lakelearning how to braid long thin plastic stripsinto a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyardor wear one, if that’s what you did with them,but that did not keep me from crossingstrand over strand again and againuntil I had made a boxyred and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,and I gave her a lanyard.She nursed me in many a sick room,lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.Here are thousands of meals, she said,and here is clothing and a good education.And here is your lanyard, I replied,which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,strong legs, bones and teeth,and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.And here, I wish to say to her now,is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,but the rueful admission that when she tookthe two-tone lanyard from my hand,I was as sure as a boy could bethat this useless, worthless thing I woveout of boredom would be enough to make us even.