Basket Heads Make Her Cry

We sit around the kitchen table; McKenzie and I watching something on the nearby television while our mother alternates between perusing an old issue of Nebraska Life and the Parade newspaper insert. My father bangs dresser drawers shut in the other room as he puts away the last of his laundry.  With every loud noise, my mother sits up straight and looks at me, wide-eyed.  I nod reassuringly and she returns to her page flipping.

My father emerges from the hallway a few minutes later with an empty laundry basket, and, noticing he has my mother’s full attention, turns the plastic basket upside down and places it on my head.  I can see between the plastic slots as my mother’s eyebrows wrinkle and she lets go of the magazine. 

“Hi Mom,” I say, in as normal a voice as I can. 

She stares at the overturned basket resting on my shoulders, raises an index finger, looks from McKenzie to my father and back to me, and then starts chuckling. 

“How are you?” I ask as nonchalantly as someone talking about the weather on a nice day.  My mother’s face breaks into a wide, toothy grin and she laughs outright, still pointing at me. 

I remove the basket, the static causing my hair to stick out in all directions, and run to the laundry room.  Returning to the table, I situate an extra basket on McKenzie’s head and replace the one on my own.  Our mother begins laughing again at the sight of another basket person. 

We wave at her and say “Hi Mom” in unison.  She focuses on one of us and then the other and then back and forth until she is laughing so hard tears stream down her cheeks. 

            

For nearly five minutes, the basket heads make her laugh. We stop only when she gets the hiccups.