Dead Mom

Today Matthew left quickly from church with the three girls, while I took my time visiting, taking Henry to the bathroom, and searching for his lost picture from Sunbeam class. I wasn't in a hurry.

So as we drove home, Henry and I conversed. We passed something that Henry insisted was a broken swimming pool--I suppose because it was surrounded by cheap green fencing with one inch green plastic slats. Three menacing rows of barbed wire surrounded the top, and several brightly colored keep-out signs were posted on the padlocked door. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the city power.

Either way, it wasn't worth arguing. "Oh yes, Henry, look at the broken swimming pool!"

We drove a little further before Henry piped up, "A dead mom."

"Huh?" I asked.

"A dead mom. I see a dead mom."

"Henry," I said, "my mom is dead." I've always imagined having some special experience where my kids could possible meet my mom in spirit. The thought did cross my mind at this point that maybe this was it. He was seeing my mom . . . um . . . out the window on the road. In the seat next to me . . . This thought didn't last long.

I'm sure I've told Henry at some point that my mom was dead, but I kind of assumed that he was too little to care or remember.

"Henry, how did you know my mom was dead? Did you talk about that in church today?"

Henry at this point, began whining, flustered. "Dead mom. Mom! Turn around!"

I wasn't in a hurry to get home and face my motherhood responsitilbities, so I made a u-turn at the next. Then I drove a mile or so back down the road while Henry asserted over and over, "Not there, not there."

After a few minutes, he began bouncing in his seat: "There! There! Dead mom."

So I flipped another u-turn, and drove slowly up the road, trying to see where the dead mom is.

"There it is mom!! There is the dead Mom!"

If you look really closely, you'll see a white mannequin with a dress and a hat leaned leaned up at the top of the stairs on the right side of the house. She's always there advertising Hatter Exchange, a seldomly frequented clothing consignment shop that resides in the little house.

"Henry," I tried to explain, "It's not real. It's kind of like when you make things out of play dough, only someone made a big mom and put a hat and dress on it."

"No," He insisted, "It's a dead mom."

"O.K. Henry. Thanks for showing me the dead mom."

As we pulled into our driveway, Henry mused, "Hmmm . . . I didn't hear the dead mom."