Can it be that I have a 12-year-old child who does not know how to make a bed? Oh, yeah, she is my child. A Gemini, too. Bed-making has never been an issue for me–and yet, when I do make the bed, when the sheets are all clean and cozy, well, there’s just nothing better, right?
So, we washed her sheets and I left it to her to make the bed and she comes out and asks, “Do you have to be a mom to figure out how to put these things on the bed?” She indicated she was having more trouble with the mattress cover than the sheet. So I go in to help her, and I’m showing her how to ease it over one end, pull toward the other then, well, you know the drill, I’m sure. So I’m in the midst of showing her and I say “You don’t have to be a mother, (ugh), but you do have to (arr) pay attention and use your (urgh) muscles. And (I said as I’m trying to tug the fabric over that last corner, you know how that goes…) sometimes it doesn’t hurt to pray.” (Voila! Damn thing is now snugly on the bed and I’m gasping for breath and I haven’t a clue why those last words came out of my mouth.)
“That’s weird,” she says to me. “Why would you pray … especially if you don’t believe in God?”
“Who said you have to believe in God to pray?” I asked.
“Good point. But I still don’t get why you’d pray while making the bed.”
I sure didn’t have an answer to that one. Except, doesn’t it always help to pray in the midst of struggle–no matter how pedestrian the struggle is? Sure doesn’t hurt. I suppose there must be a god of pedestrian things, a much lesser god, of course, who listens to such prayers while eating donuts and drinking stale coffee while watching cat videos on Youtube. I imagine its a man named Eugene, but that’s only because I’ve been listening to the Pink Martini’s again.