Chicken Trolls

I don’t mean to play favorites, but here it is. 

The day our dryer ceased drying, I figured out, I do indeed have a favorite. 

This was in the busiest of months last fall–but then again, they all seem to be vying for that title at this point in my life. I realized the clothes had been tumbling for quite some time to no avail. They were less wet than they had been coming out of the wash, but “damp” was still an accurate description. I was able to get them hung up in our laundry room to finish drying before heading out the door, but in the back of my mind, I cringed and made a mental note: Dryer of over 20 years may finally be retiring with no advance notice.

Gone are the days of clotheslines out back. At least for us. I miss the fresh sun-dried sheets off the line from my childhood . At this point, though I never thought it possible, I even miss Daddy’s stiff blue jeans that could have walked on their own given a gentle push. We always saved those for last because, folded in half, they could fill up the basket on their own. I remember so many times making the mad dash as the first raindrops of an unexpected summer storm began pelting down. Clotheslines were an era I look back on now with sentimentality and a grateful heart. Not so much at the time. It was something I took for granted. 

Much like my “antique” dryer. It’s been repaired a few times over the past twenty years I’ve known it. My Daddy was handy at things like that, having worked with his uncle who knew about such things. Until our appliances started having those electronic boards put in them, Daddy could make them work. Same with cars. If he couldn’t fix it, you knew it was serious. 

I felt like with our dryer on this occasion, it had something to do with the heating element. It was tumbling, air was blowing, but there was no warmth when the dryer door was opened. Just making that prognosis made me feel like I was definitely my Daddy’s daughter. And I was a little more proud of myself than I probably deserved to be. Because that’s where my skill set ended. 

I’m not sure how Cooter (as his Cap nicknamed him because he loved cars like the mechanic on that TV show) came up with the idea to look into it, but he did. We homeschool, so it’s possible, I tossed it out as a “project,” but however it came about, he opened up the plethora of good and bad of YouTube and found a video coaching him through checking things out. 

He found the heating element, learned how to take it out, did so, and then drove (this started last spring, we don’t talk about it–I just do a lot of breath exercises and ask for God’s protection) to the same appliance repair shop his Cap used to frequent more often than he cared to and purchased a new one. (Yes. That was a long sentence. This was a big deal.) My 16 year old baby boy took the initiative, learned something new, made a game plan, and executed it. I was and am proud of him. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t fix the problem. He might have been discouraged–okay, I’m sure he was. But he. did. not. quit. He pulled out another piece and went back to the appliance store and bought a replacement for that. On the second shift of being in the tight quarters behind the dryer, trying not only to learn but also apply something new, he called me into the laundry room. I went and stood in front of the dryer and asked him, from the other side of the dryer, what I could do to help.

I could hear the frustration in his voice. ”Nothing.”

And then, without looking up, “I just want someone to be here while I figure this out.”

That was when I teared up and assumed my best “supportive though I have no clue what is going on or how to help” posture. I am sure anyone looking in would have seen someone working and someone not, but I felt beauty in that moment. It is a priceless, precious memory for me. 

Today my baby turns 17. Seventeen years since I heard, “It’s a boy!” while Celine sang from the speaker about waiting for so long for a miracle to come, being touched by an angel with love, a new day coming, and finding so many good things in the eyes of a boy. Seventeen years since the sweetest night nurse looked at my dear baby boy and said, “He can have Valentine’s birthday parties!” Her speaking to his future was a gift to my tender heart in those wee dark hours of uncertainty. Seventeen years since he fit in the crook of my arm as we both dozed in the hospital before being released to begin our grand journey together. Seventeen years since I gave him a second middle name, because it was my prerogative and he is special and needed each one and a thousand more to embody who he was, is, and will become. 

That day last fall I figured out that I have a favorite. My dryer. But please don’t tell the refrigerator or freezer or toaster oven because I really don’t need any of them to show out and pitch a fit anytime in the near future or ever. Maybe I should paraphrase my Mama (who used to say her favorite child was the one she was with at the moment): my favorite appliance is the one I’m using at the moment. 

Still, I was awfully thankful when Cooter reattached the back and heat was once again a part of our drying experience. I was thankful for his persistence and patience and quite honestly, I was some kind of impressed. This baby who, when I blinked (Kenny Chesney was right), grew up before my very eyes. There are outward signs we look for, right? Voice changing. Pants size ever lengthening. Facial hair. Check check and check. But the day I saw him doing something that Cap used to do to bless me and others…..well. I saw in him the gift and promise of who he is becoming. And it blessed my heart. 

As he turns 17 today, almost an adult, but definitely no longer a child–I think about standing there in the tight quarters of the laundry room, just present. Because he asked. I am so thankful he did. As he gets older and older, year after year, I know he won’t need me so much and often not at all. He may not even, as hard as this is for me to think about, want me around sometimes. My prayer for this not quite, in between, beautiful birthday number 17 is that he always asks when he needs help or just someone to be present. My other prayer is that he always knows I will show up. That if if it in my power, I will be there. Before I take my last breath and after. Whatever that might look like, I will always show up for him, just as my parents always have. 

You are loved, baby boy. Always and forever. Thanks for fixing my favorite. And for being your beautiful, precious, hilarious, and introspective self. May you have the strength to open the doors, windows, and gates that continue you on the path God intends for you. And when you need someone to walk alongside or sit and rest with you in the dark, may you always have the courage and voice to ask. 

I love you. 

~happy birthday, Cooter~