I go in for my surgery on the 12th and am spending this week doing work work and trying to lift and clean and organize as many things as I can.
That has included getting to the bottom of the mountain of laundry.
Let me tell you a T-shirt story. Two actually.
When my middle son was in elementary school he had a favourite grey T-shirt. He wore it all the time. On its own and under other clothes if he had to.
It was his lucky shirt.
Now after expending all that luck eventually that old T shirt got worn right out. Beyond repairs.
This drove my daughter, the oldest, nuts. She was beside herself with the idea that her brother was going out in public in a wrecky old shirt. Me I didn't mind. I have great respect for lucky garments. I have heard rumours that a certain brother-in-law likes to operate wearing his lucky blue underwear, and personally if I were his patient I would be happy to know that's what he had on.
Back to the story.
Well one day my daughter grabbed this old T-shirt when her brother was in the bathroom and she cut it up. So he would never wear it again and never embarrass her.
Now if you don't have kids you may wonder if this daughter has a mean streak, she absolutely does not, but if you have had several children, or siblings of your own, you know that this is the sort of thing that goes on when people aren't looking in larger families.
My son was devastated.
All I could do was take that sliced in half shirt and applique it onto his favourite bed blanket so that on some level my son would still have it.
And those kids, well they get along fine now but it has taken some time and some retribution.
Well today when I was going through the mountain of laundry I found a hospital bag with this in it:
It's the clothes my youngest son (who moved out today to go live with friends, the 17th time he has done this) was wearing when he was brought into the ER after what had been a very bad car accident in the winter. He was a passenger and it was nobody's fault.
The clothes had been cut off him which of course is what has to be done when someone is brought in unconscious.
I looked at those raggedy cuts and well I felt the way you would too. He was away when this happened, is miraculously fine now, but this was evidence. After a few teary moments over the washing machine I threw those shirts away.
Well, my youngest son wants them back. He has assigned me the task of sewing all those pieces together again so he can wear them, as sort of a statement he survived. Like all my children he thinks his mother can sew anything up.
When I can kid, when I can.