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// Ponying Around: 3 
// Story: Pink Surprise Potions 
// by Ponyess 
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	I had just woken up, maybe it is the sun stirring.  Yet, I had woken up.  There are a few blank spaces, and plenty of blurry space in my memory.  Almost as if I had been knocked out of the body.

The light is reflecting on the blue and yellow balloons in the ceiling, which all by itself feels strange.  Yet, it is also eerily familiar.  These balloons has been there for as long as I can remember.  Maybe this is the consolation I had been searching for.  Is it?



The most curious thing is the pink balloons cowering under the bed, her bed.  Apparently, they had gathered their courage and slithered, or floated out, spreading out into the room.  Now, with the returning of a new day, they scurry back in, under the safety of the shadow of their imaginary night, under her bed.  Are they Luna’s Minions?

Now I experience overlapping, conflicting memories and recollections.  Who is Luna, and what is a Minion?  Are the balloons pets?

Looking around, only to find everything exactly where they had been the day before.  Where my recollections told me that they would be.  I guess this is reassuring.

Thinking back, I recall Pinkie Pie having exactly the kind of balloons on her flanks, the once I now see under her ceiling.  Maybe that could make some senseless sense, after all.  This is her room.  The problem I can not grasp, is how the balloons could have migrated from her flank, and out into her room.  Besides, how many balloons had she been covered with, if these had indeed been on her body?  Or, had she grown new balloons on her flanks, the way her hooves and mane would grow out?  If this was the case, she would in effect be their Mother?  Now I got all kinds of strange entangled notions and images in my head.

In the end; I chose to decide that I believe that these are her children.  As strange a notion as it may be for any Pony, it isn’t strange in the least, not to me.  Maybe it is in my heritage, even if I had no memory of it.  If Pinkie Pie, that pink mare is my Mother, I have a Father somewhere.  He is bound to be the other part of who I am.  A slime like creature.  From this perspecti9ve, how is it strange for her to give birth to these Balloons; as her children, her Foals?

Maybe I should ask her?  From the perspective, with her as my Mother, it is right and correct for me to ask her.  Yet, there is the chance that the topic is sensitive and touchy.  Would I embarrass her, if I asked her?  If so, I guess it is better if I ask her in private.



I may not be an infant in the strict meaning, but considering how long I have been around; could I still be considered a Foal.  Her Foal?



Something about her Balloons is fascinating me.  Is it merely the way they move around?  How they move about when you don’t look at them?

All the Blue and Yellow once hanging bravely in the ceiling, while the pink once is crowding the narrow space under her bed.  To me, they act as if she was their Mother.  I just can’t quite explain, or place one of my hooves on it all.  How does one place a rubbery and elastic hoof on a topic, or situation like this?  Maybe I will figure that out, in due time?  I am after all quite young.



I certainly am a separate individual with my clearly defined body.  I am not Pinkie Pie, or Surprise.  Just as I am not my Father, who ever he may be.  Maybe I should not worry, or think about it?  I hope Pinkie Pie will let me know, when she feels it is the right time.  When she thinks I am old enough to understand.  When ever that is.



I carefully fold the quilt on my bed in and towards the wall.  Slowly slipping my hind quarters towards the side of the bed, sliding down and out of the bed.  My bed.

Moving slowly, in the hopes that I will not cause any noises, preventing her to wake up, before she had intended.  Of course, I may still have to wake her up soon.  I don’t have any food, and I don’t know where to find anything I can and want to eat.

One may argue that I could pick up anything and nibble.  Just swallow anything before me, absorbing the mass and nutrients.  Yet, it isn’t how I do.  There has to be more purpose to it than that.  Am I over thinking it?  Yet, I feel I am too young to know what I need, or to know what I can, or is allowed to eat.



With nothing better to do, I move along, around the floor and the walls.  Looking around, sniffing and snorting at and on everything I come close enough to.  Enjoying the scents of most of what I find, just not in the exciting manner of recognising something I want or need to eat.  I may start to feel hungry, but I still don’t quite know.

Step by step, I move forwards, one hoof before the other.  I am quiet, careful steps avoiding noises.  I don’t like noises.  Yet, I do like how quiet my hooves are, when I do put the effort into it.  Is it the soft hooves, or my insignificant mass that makes this possible?  I don’t know.  Maybe I shouldn’t care.



I see the light flowing through the window, into the room.  Her room. My mother’s room.  I like the sound of these words, just as I like the warmth the light spread over my flank as I pass by the window.

With the realisation, I consider it.  I think I would like to go out, to trot over the grasses outdoors.  I just need to wait for Mother, Pinkie Pie to feed me and guide me outside.  I dare not go out on my own.  If she would be angry or worried. What would the other Ponies think, if they saw me on the lawn?  What if other Ponies would be mean to me?



After endless laps, circuiting the room, I feel a stirring.  She is waking up.  Looking back, I hastily fold the quilt on my bed, leaving it looking neat.  I hope she likes neat; that she likes me to make my bed look just right.



I could see and feel her waking up.  Her eyes going up.  There is a strange sensation, feeling to the moment.  She knows, she knew.

“Oozey.  Good morning, my dear!” she exclaimed in a bubbly exciting, or excited voice, looking straight at me.

“Good morning, Mom.  Pinkie Pie!” I responded, looking at her.

I aim my entire consciousness at her.

“Pinkie is just fine.  Not that I mind you calling me Mom!” she expressed, a wide grin all over her face.

A hysterical giggle spread from her, she was beaming, almost as bright as Celestias sun.  How could a Pony do that?  Should I ask?

“Pinkie, you are the bestest of Moms one little filly like me could ever have!” I then exploded in excitement.

“Every little filly loves me, Oozey.  I do my very bestest in order to make them like me.  Throwing parties left and right, selling the bestest, tastiest, sweetest, and not to mention, yummiest pastries in town!” she responded.

“Speaking of pastries, I think I am hungry, but I don’t know what I can eat.  I don’t want you to be angry with me, for chewing on something I was not supposed to, or something that is not good for me!” I pointed out.

The question worried me, but it felt as if it was the perfect, natural place to mention it.

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