Picture this.  It is dinner time on a cold and snowy night.  My mom, Sam and I are sitting around the kitchen table when a whirling sound interrupts our meal.  My mother sets down her fork and looks at all of us with an expression of pain and empathy.  "Kids," she whispers, "that's the trauma helicopter flying overhead.  Someone is hurt badly.  Say a little prayer for them."  Tears well up in her eyes and she looks upward, perhaps imagining the terribly injured soul that is passing overhead.  Or maybe she is remembering that short and horrible helicopter ride that Sam made over two years ago, the beginning of his long and arduous journey through TBI-land.  But instead of the noise fading away as it flies toward the hospital it  seems to grow louder, almost deafeningly so.  Could the trauma helicopter be buzzing our house or, even worse, landing on the roof?  Maybe taking a break in the backyard.  "WHAT THE HECK!" Sam bellows.  But the drumming pulsations from the blades grow even louder, pulsing in our ears and seeming to shake the entire house.  Glasses and plates wiggle and jump across the table, dishes crash onto the floor as we all cover our ears in terror.  "WHY IS THAT HELICOPTER SO LOUD!"  I yell through the noise.  Then we are all still, looking at each other and, out of the corners of our eyes, checking out the windows and walls.  Maybe we half expect to see this helicopter come crashing through in all it's horrible glory.  And, just when we think we can't take the noise any longer, the sound changes.  Now instead of hearing the whirling of blades we  hear banging, crashing and jumping of something that seem to be coming from, of all places, the mud room.  But how, where, huh, what-the...And then it dawns on all of us what is really happening.  And, in unison, Sam and I turn to look at our (hysterical, overreacting) mother.  "Oh, " she says with a sheepish grin on her face, "I guess that wasn't the trauma helicopter.  It was just the washing machine."  So hold hands now everyone,  look upward, close your eyes and say a little prayer for the darks and whites.  God love their little selves. May they survive their journey through the delicate cycle and come out as their original color and in all one piece.  Amen.

Ha.  My mother might post a response in the comment section but I want you to just ignore it.  I do not embellish.  I tell it like I remember it.  Right after this whole episode (I like to call it A Little Prayer for the Laundry) I said, in between my guffaws, "Oh, I can't WAIT to post this on the blog!"  My mom then slowly turned and  looked at me with an evil glint in her eyes.  And then, with spittle glistening off her teeth, she hissed, "If    you   DARE   tell  ANYONE   about   what   happened   here   tonight   you   and   all   your    children and all your children's children   will   live   to   regret   it!"  I put my hands over my face and  quietly started to weep.  But, even through my terror, I know I must speak the truth.  Sorry, mom.  You are a dork and now the world will know.  Ha.  Har de har har. 

Sorry.  No report about Sam.  But he's fine and enjoying the crazy circus that is our life.

Bec

P.S.  The title is not my best, I just couldn't think of anything more fitting.  I thought about calling it "My Mother is Insane" but it seemed a little inflammatory.