I sat on my bed folding a load of clothes. Two year old Max was excited about the empty laundry basket. For her, this meant it was time to play dump truck. Most laundry days, she would pile all her toys in it, drag it across the living room, dump them all out on the floor and start all over again. This could go on for ages, which was great for me because I could listen to some tunes and get some work done in peace.
This particular night started off the same way. I sat on the bed, surrounded by fresh from the dryer clothes smelling of tropical breezes. Max had her laundry basket. Both of us were busy. About halfway through the mountain of clothes, I notice she is unusually quiet. I look up and see Max sitting on the floor gazing into the laundry basket. She had lovingly laid a small blanket in the bottom and was squatted next to it, peering in, singing softly.
“Bethany, what are you doing?” I ask quietly, not really wanting to disrupt the scene.
“Shhh. I sing to my angel,” she answers simply. My mind scanned over the past two years and could not remember ever mentioning angels to her.
“What is your angel doing in the laundry basket?”
“De angel is sad.”
“Why is the angel sad?”
“She sleepy, but she can’t sleep. I singing to her.”
“That’s very sweet, Beth.”
“Come sing, Mommy.”
Obediently, I sat in the hallway floor and began to sing a lullaby to an empty laundry basket. Or was it? Only Max knows for sure.