Mommy Ever After » I love Lucy

Golly, I’m sorry.

mommyeverafter — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 14:42:46 +0000

(So, #febphotoaday/20)
20. Handwriting

#febphotoaday/19
19. Something you hate to do.

The Laundry. I’m sure you can imagine why.

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The sunny spot.

mommyeverafter — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 20:36:00 +0000

No matter what time of day it is,
or what room she is sitting in,
my Lola always manages to find the sunny spot,
small as it may be,
to stretch out and bask and nap upon.

The entire house could be dark and gloomy,
or filled with energy and sound,
and,
without fail,
Lola will have found the one, small slit of light
and curled herself up
in the sunny spot.
She comes by this trait honestly,
as a very special lady used to do the very same,
so many years ago.
My dear Lucy.
Lucy was my childhood dog,
my sweet girl,
whom we lost the very week that my husband and I got our Lola.
Lucy was 16.
She had long since tired of running away in my husband’s backyard.
She was content to lie in the sunny spot,
as the grand dame of the family,
watching over the young ones all around her.
The very last photo we have of our Lucy girl is this
http://mommyeverafter.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=1507&action=edit as she and (her puffy, white, neurotic, mental-gefilte-fish of a brother) Teddy met Lola for the first time. Lucy, never frivolous or particularly generous with her love,
nuzzled baby Lola and kissed her,
a tender seal of approval towards the new puppy in the family.
Lucy was passing the torch to a new furry, little girl.
And two days later, Lucy went to heaven.
And we’ve all missed her every day, ever since.
A few months later, as the ice melted from the ground
and as new, lush, green life began to sprout all around us,
we laid our Lucy to rest in my parents’ yard,
and planted a tree above her.
Her grave stone reads
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
and we sang to her as we placed pebbles on her name.
The tree has now grown large and strong,
as has our tiny Lola.
I think of Lucy every time my Lola does a naughty trick,
or kisses me gently on my hand,
or looks at me, with the most soulful eyes,
as her silky fur shines in the sunlight.

We love you, Luc.
We feel your warmth and love surrounding us, always;
especially,
in the sunny spot.

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So, I totalllllly planned to write,

mommyeverafter — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 02:16:43 +0000

and share pictures of my afternoon as a Disney Princess,
until I accidentally conjured Lucille Ball.
You see, if you are not my facebook friend,
or husband,
or parent,
you probably don’t know that I spent the evening flooding my basement.
Let me just start by saying this:
I’m married to a good guy.
A sweet,
tutu buying
Princess embracing
good guy.
And, this good guy just so happens to also do all of our laundry.
He sorts.
He schleps.
He washes.
He dries.
He folds.
He puts away.
I told you;
Good, good guy.
Well, I decided that after 15 months
(yes, 15 months have passed since I first became pregnant, and in that time I have not lifted one, single laundry-laden finger)
I would surprise this good guy of mine by doing a load of baby clothes, while he was out for the evening.
I sorted.
I schlepped.
I added the detergent.
I set the settings.
I washed.
I checked on the wash.
It was sopping wet.
I ran it through another spin cycle.
I checked again.
But,
wait,
what’s that?
What’s that on my feet, as I trudge over to the washing machine?
Water.
Water Water Everywhere.
Ev.Er.Y.Where.
You see, I forgot to mention one crucial step above.
After the sorting and the schlepping,
I moved the heaping pile of bath towels from their perch atop the washing machine, and placed them in the sink that sits in between the washer and dryer.
(Because, in my head, apparently, that sink is purely ornamental. Except, not.)
You see, what I’ve learned in the past 2 hours is that the sink is needed to drain the wash water,
and when you fill it to the brim with large, downy bath towels,
it is bound to overflow.
And there you have it.
Noah’s ark in my basement.
Fortunately, our canines are already happy in their pair,
and so they marched, 2 by 2, onto the large, wooden ship and sailed away, to seek help.
And when they returned with a dove and told me that they had found dry land and a few spare rags,
I tried to tackle the mess.
So, as it turns out, I’m just about as good at cleaning up a basement flood as I am at doing laundry.
I may have even made it worse.
So, in true Lucy fashion,
I sucked it up, swallowed my pride and batted my lashes, as I had the dogs break the dripping wet news to my husband.
And you know what?
He was fine.
He assessed.
He schlepped.
He dried.
He mopped.
And, he even did a load of laundry.
And he did it well.
So, while I love Lucy,
I really love my good guy.
And this accident-prone, klutzy, laundry-layperson
is very, very lucky
that he loves me too.

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