Things My Sons Will Say At My Funeral

I am fully aware that when my children stand up to speak at my funeral, they are not going to lead with my spiritual depth.

They are not going to begin with,

“She was wise.”

“She was eloquent.”

“She was composed.”

No.

They are going to look at each other.

Smile.

And say,

“Well… Mom had her own language.”

Somewhere along the way, when I can’t find the correct word, I simply invent one.

Not confidently.

Not intentionally.

It just… comes out.

And my boys have lovingly named this dialect:

Velvetanisian.

It is a rich, expressive language where “spatula” might become “flipper thing” and “humidity” becomes “air thickness.”

I once used an entirely made-up word mid-sentence and kept going like it was in the dictionary.

They stared at me.

And one of them said, “That’s not English. That’s Velvetanisian.”

I’m certain this will be mentioned.

Then there’s the mouse incident.

I am, for reasons I cannot explain, absolutely horrified of mice.

Not snakes.

Not storms.

Not chaos.

Mice.

One evening, there it was.

Small. Fast. Traumatizing.

I found myself standing at the kitchen doorway yelling for my sons to rescue me like a Victorian woman under siege.

In a moment of primal panic, I began throwing the only objects within reach at the mouse.

Fruit.

Apples.

Possibly a banana.

Which, in hindsight, was less a defense strategy and more a snack delivery system.

My boys arrived to find me shrieking and pelting produce at a creature the size of a golf ball.

They will absolutely tell that story.

With dramatic reenactments.

Then there were the patchwork pillows.

I spent hours making a perfectly coordinated matching set.

Measured. Cut. Sewn. Pressed.

When I finished, I stepped back to admire them.

They did not match.

At all.

I was heartbroken.

Certain I had ruined everything.

My oldest walked over quietly, picked up one pillow, rotated it 90 degrees…

And suddenly they matched perfectly.

He didn’t say a word.

Just turned it.

And walked away.

I suspect this story will be framed as proof that I am both creative and slightly chaotic.

And then.

The car incident.

I told them to stop arguing.

They did not.

I told them again.

They escalated.

So I did what any calm, emotionally mature mother would do.

I pulled the car over.

Told them to get out.

And drove — in full sight of them — the remaining mile and a half home.

Which, unfortunately for them, was mostly uphill.

I did not leave them.

I maintained visual contact.

But I absolutely made my point.

I imagine this will receive thunderous applause at the funeral.

But here’s what I hope they also say.

That I loved them fiercely.

That I tried.

That I was imperfect and human and occasionally dramatic.

That I invented words when I couldn’t find them.

That I feared mice but not hard things.

That I sometimes overreacted.

That I sometimes underreacted.

That I built patchwork pillows that didn’t match — until they did.

That I raised men who could both rescue their mother from a mouse and rotate a pillow without making her feel small.

If they laugh when they tell those stories…

That will be enough.

Because laughter means the memories were wrapped in love.

And if the worst they have to share is fruit-throwing and creative vocabulary?

I will consider that a life well-lived.

From the Virtual Lakehouse Sanctuary — where motherhood is part poetry, part chaos, and occasionally conducted in Velvetanisian.