Bury Me In The Laundry Room

My husband surprised me a few years back on Mother’s Day with a great gift from our twins.  It was two framed pictures of the kids’ drawings of me from their preschool.  While the physical likenesses were not too good, the fact that they both thought I was 14 years-old clenched the deal.  I absolutely had to have that fact preserved for eternity.

Normally, when I receive something framed as a gift, the immediate dilemma becomes where to hang said gift, as our walls are already overflowing with pictures, shadow boxes, and the like.

No such problemo with these two pictures, though.

When my husband asked where I wanted them to go, I told him the one place where I would be sure to see them every day.

In our laundry room. 

It’s really where I live.  I can eat in there as it’s right next to the kitchen.  I can even sleep there too.  If I get tired, I just make a little bed by smoothing out the dirty laundry; then I can curl up into a little ball right in front of the washer and dryer.  (Gas mask required.)  And as an added bonus, in the wintertime, I stay especially warm as my dryer is most efficient.

When you consider that I do laundry approximately 3,284 times a week, it’s truly my home away from home, and my home within a home, if you will.  I can never hide from my family because they always know they can find me there.

That’s why I’ve decided that when I die, I know exactly what I want.  No expensive casket.  No flowers.  No organ music.  My husband will be instructed to save the money for the kids’ educational future. 

The program will be simple and succinct.  A few of my favorite Scripture verses read, some (hopefully) kind remarks from my pastor and a few of my friends, my favorite anthem, and then a quick announcement to conclude:

Burial will be in the Wright family’s laundry room immediately following the service.  In lieu of flowers, the family requests a container of your favorite detergent or fabric softener.

            Copyright ©   2004 Lynn Floyd Wright

                                 364 words

Lingerie Model

                                                                         

Over breakfast this morning, my toddler daughter Katherine pointed to a picture in the newspaper of a beautiful model and said  “Ma-Ma?”

     My heart soared.  Oh boy! I thought.   To think I really looked like that to her.  I praised her profusely.

     “Oh yes, darling,” I cooed, ignoring the nagging feeling that my sin of lying would eventually find me out.  “That’s Ma-Ma, all right!  You are Ma-Ma’s smart, smart girl!”

     Then she pointed at the other page.  It was a picture of a rock.  “Ma-Ma?” she asked expectantly, beaming up at me.

     Ah, the highs and lows of motherhood.  Just like an athlete, from the ecstasy of victory to the agony of defeat in the blink of an eye.

     For over a year, I had waited to hear my magical name from either one of my twins.  After all, I had listened to months and months of pleas and cries for Da-Da.  Especially at 3 o’clock in the morning when Da-Da was sound asleep and I was walking the floors with one of them, they’d look at me and say “DaDa?” 

     “No”, I would mutter.  “Da-Da’s not here.  Da-Da’s in the wonderful land of Sleepyville.  I am Ma-Ma.”

     

       A sweet smile of understanding from them.  “Da-Da?”  they’d say again, looking right at me.

       No use, I thought.  They’ll never say it.

       Still, I endured month after month of hearing “Da-Da,” feeling increasing frustration.  After all, who could blame me for wanting to hear my name?  After feeding, dressing, changing, bathing, playing, carrying (times two) all this time, I wanted validation.  I wanted recognition.  My insecurity ran wild.

    But as the days passed, I noticed my daughter was starting to get the right idea. She was trying to say Ma-Ma.  (Her brother Christopher was still silent on the issue.)

   As Katherine’s mastery of my name grew, I made up my mind; she was going to get a BMW and Christopher was in line for a used Yugo.

     Now suddenly, today, the big day was here; not only was she saying my name, but now she was putting a face with it too!  And wow!  What a face (and body)!  That new Beemer was practically hers.

     Then, a mere second later, she thought I looked like a rock.  I went from looking like Christy Brinkley to Yassar Arafat in an instant.

      Bitterly disappointed, I glanced expectantly over at my son and showed him the picture of the model. 

     He would look better in a BWM anyway.

       

                                           439 words

                         Copyright  Ó  2004  Lynn Floyd Wright

Motherhood Finally?!

Congratulations.  You’re pregnant.

     Being forty something I thought perhaps my hearing was going, so I asked the caller to repeat their message.  Same reply.  You’re pregnant.   

    Two little words and my life was forever changed.  I remember falling to the floor and sobbing for joy.  I am an emotional person, yet I can remember only a handful of times when I have openly wept, and this was one of them.  And why not?

     Married 15 years.  43 years-old.  Praying and begging and bargaining with God for years for a child.  If only you’ll give me a child I’ll…

     Enduring every Mother’s Day, wondering if it would ever be my turn.   Watching the rest of my family with their children and being the only one without.  Spending years with doctors and operations and tests and drugs and needles.  And yet, hearing those two words, the trials and heartaches and disappointments faded to the back of my mind and seemed fuzzy and distant.

     I looked up at my husband, who was crying too.  I rubbed his face and felt his tears.  “What are you doing?” he asked.  “I’m making sure this is not a dream,” I whispered.  Then I slapped him, a bit too hard I guess.  

      The wonderful wimp cried out in pain.  The Kodak moment was shot all to bits.

      We floated on air for the first few days.  When the shock wore off, we decided it would be best to keep our pregnancy a secret for the first few months; after so many disappointments as well as a family history of miscarriages during the first thirteen weeks, we decided we would first tell only a few trusted family members and friends.  Then, if all was still well after that time, we would go public.

     We got out the calendar and counted off the thirteen weeks.  Providentially, our “tell it to the world” date fell on May 24^th, my husband’s 70^th birthday.  (My husband is an exceptional man.)

     Easter Week, when I was five weeks pregnant, my husband had to go out of town on business.  On Good Friday, I started having some problems and went to the doctor.  The doctor was out of town so his head nurse examined me.  I was totally unprepared for the news she gave me.  Shock.  Disbelief.  My life flashing before my eyes.  How could this be?  After all this time, waiting, praying, hoping and then this?  This was some Good Friday!

     I was pregnant with TWINS!!  (I told you my husband was an exceptional man.)

     I was in such a state of shock when I left that I couldn’t find my car.  A nurse had to go outside with me to help me find it.   To this day, I am still unclear exactly how I got home.

    When could I tell my husband?  Not until Sunday because he was out of town.  And how would I tell him?  Not over the phone.  I had visions of him thudding to the floor clutching his chest, the phone conking him in the head and rendering him unconscious.

     For the next few days, I tried to keep my tone light when talking to him on the phone, all the while plotting how to break the news.  I decided to go the gift route.  After all, this was not exactly something one could do with a card.  I had never seen a Hallmark that said “Congratulations.  You’re 70 years old and having twins.” So I bought two pair of little booties and wrapped them up, using a huge bow as a distraction.

     On Easter Sunday when my husband came home, I presented the gift to him at our kitchen table.  (I wanted to be sure he was sitting.)  As long as I live, I will never forget the look on his face.  First puzzlement.  Scratching his head, pondering.  Then slowly, the dawn of enlightenment.

     “TWINS?” he asked finally in disbelief.  “This means TWINS?”  I gave him a nervous smile and nodded.  The silence was deafening.  I looked closer to make sure he was still breathing.  Finally I said, “Honey, are you all right?  Is this okay?”

     He stared at me a long time. Eventually he opened his mouth.  “I don’t think we can handle one,” he replied. “Two shouldn’t make any difference.”  Then he broke into a huge grin and rushed over to hug me.

     My husband is indeed an exceptional man.

     Our adventure had begun.  So…how do a 43 year-old woman and a 70 year-old man raise twins?

     Stay tuned.

                                             

                                           778 words

                      Copyright  Ó  2004 Lynn Floyd Wright