Making Beds

Okay, that's not me, it's my little brother, Blair.
But that is one of the beds.
Picture me in it . . .

I have just realized that Mom was infinitely more patient than I am.

It's a bit of a painful discovery.

A moment of silence, please.

Now I will explain . . .

When I was four, I used to follow Mom around as she went through her morning routine.

This was before she really expected me to be of much help.

Though I did try.

I should mention, here, that about the time I became a valuable helper, I no longer wanted to follow Mom around.

Oh, the irony.

Back to my story . . .

I watched Mom clean the kitchen.

Pick up clothes and discarded items.

Tidy.

Dust.

Vacuum and/or sweep.

And scrub bathrooms.

But my most favourite activity . . .

The one I waited patiently for . . .

Was 'the making of the beds'.

Because Mom never just made the beds.

Nope.

That would be boring.

No, what Mom would do was 'make me in the beds'.

I would snuggle in and she would pull the covers up and proceed to make the bed.

With me in it.

I would lay quietly until she said, “Okay that's done. Time for the next bed.”

That was my cue to squeal and sit up abruptly, totally negating her efforts.

She would pretend to be flabbergasted. (Oooh. Real word!)

And I would laugh uproariously.

Then she would order me from the bed and make it again.

This time without any stowaways.

And we would move on to the next bedroom.

And the next bed.

Where the routine would be repeated.

I don't ever remember Mom making a bed just once.

No.

That's something other mothers did.

Moving ahead fifty or so years . . .

Several of my grandchildren were staying over.

Everyone had finally crawled out of bed.

And were awaiting breakfast, which Grampa was cooking.

I took advantage of the interim to make the beds.

I decided to teach them the game I used to play with my mom.

“Hide in the bed,” I told them. “And don't move.”

They crawled in.

And managed not to move.

But giggling was definitely optional.

I made the bed, then said, loudly, “Well that's done. Time to move on to the next bed!”

Three kids suddenly sat up. “Gramma! We fooled you!”

I pretended to be shocked and ordered them out.

Then I made the bed a second time and we moved on to the next bedroom.

“Can we hide in this bed?” they asked.

I looked at it.

Then thought about having to make it twice.

“No. Once is enough,” I told them.

“Awwww . . .”

“Next time we'll do it again,” I promised.

They were happy.

And I had made two conclusions.

My first was that being the made-ee was infinitely more fun than being the made-er.

My second conclusion?

My Mom used to play that game at every bed.

Every bed.

She was much, much more patient than I am.

I'm sure you agree.