I Dream of Jeannie Genie Bottle

My daughter relayed a true story to me that she had heard in her 8^th grade English class about a dying old man and his caring neighbor. The old man, we’ll call him “Ed”, had family, but they were estranged at the time of his terminal illness. Knowing that his days were numbered, “Ed” asked his neighbor, my daughter’s English teacher, to help him plan his funeral and to oversee the care of his remains. He wanted his body to be cremated. Out of compassion for her neighbor, my daughter’s English teacher did just that. What she did not realize, however, was that her neighbor believed ‘overseeing the care of his remains’ meant that he would be moving in with her and her family permanently after the funeral. He bequeathed his urn to her in his will! Not knowing what else to do with “Ed”, my daughter’s English teacher decided to place his urn on her baby grand piano because “Ed” always liked music when he was alive. This story made me think about my own mortality and wonder who would be ‘overseeing the care of my remains’ after I go to heaven. Here’s my suggestion:

When I die, I want my body to be cremated, but unlike my husband who wants his ashes quietly released in the air on a gentle breeze somewhere – anywhere – as long as it is within the great state of Texas – I want my ashes to be stored in an urn that looks like the “I Dream of Jeannie” genie bottle. (I always thought that round, pink couch inside the bottle was so cool.) Then, I want my urn to be bequeathed to my two children so they have joint custody of me for one year.

I want my children to throw a party for me on my birthday and invite all of my friends still living for a sleepover afterwards. I’d like a gift from Santa Claus, (no coal please), even though I won’t do any chores around the house. I want them to take my urn to my grandchildren’s soccer games, dance recitals, and band concerts, driving from place-to-place at break neck speed trying to see if they can arrive at those various destinations on time, in one piece, still sane. And, I double dog dare them to do so without raising their voices. (I wasn’t very good at that.) I want a weekly trip to the mall with enough spending money to buy four new pairs of shoes each time I go. (A girl cannot have too many shoes.) And, finally, I want to go on vacation with each of my children and their families separately to some tropical paradise that has an endless white sandy beach. (It would be the first time ever that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting sunburn.)

The bottom line is I want payback for labor and delivery, taxi service, secret Santa assignments, and other various and sundry motherly duties I’ve performed for them over the years. Sound selfish? Maybe. But what if they had to work together to plan my birthday party? What if they had to work out a visitation schedule for me – 6 months on my son’s fireplace mantle and 6 months on my daughter’s? Maybe – just maybe – it would force them to actually use words when communicating with each other rather than the eye roll she gives him now at age 14 or the jeers he gives her at 17. What if all that collaboration would cause them to stop and think about all the good things their father and I have done for them so they, in turn, will do likewise for their children rather than remembering every single thing we’ve done wrong over the years (Good grief!)

And after that year – after they are quite tired of hauling my ashes around in that genie bottle – I’d like my children to scatter my ashes next to my husband’s. If I should pass before he does, which is a distinct possibility, I want my ashes to be spread among the tomatoes in Aunt Alma’s garden just as long as my daughter promises me that she will not let my husband marry a 20-something, ditzy blonde who looks great in a bikini. If that seems probable, I want my ashes to stay in that genie bottle and be put on my husband’s fireplace mantle as a constant reminder that he owes me too!