My mother loves her children dearly. She tells us everyday. Counts down the minutes until we’re all under her roof for holidays and long weekends. We are her pride and joy, dammit, and she can’t wait to see our three shining faces across from her at the dinner table. That is– until we all actually make it in the front door.
One of my mother’s greatest complaints about her three beautiful children is that we’re pigs. Now that she’s an empty-nester, her house just the way she likes it. It’s so clean. There is so much food in the refrigerator. Two whole cases of beer in the basement. Not a drop of water in the bottle of vodka.
And then we come home. And we destroy shit. Expand our belongings all over her household and forget how to clean up after ourselves. We also instantly regress– manners of a 5 year old, but legally able to both drink and drive (although certainly not at the same time). Which makes for a good combination.
My favorite activities when I arrive home is to drop my suitcase in the front hall and then, mostly to spite her, spend the duration of my visit to Minnesota getting dressed and undress in the dining room. Because you know, I’m an adult.
After 24 hours, I’m certain she takes one lap around her now-messy house, glances at the crew of kids on her back porch drinking all her beer, trips over 12 pairs of shoes that we’ve piled in the middle of the living room and then takes it all back. She loves us dearly– firmly established in our own homes and far away from her’s.
We like to expand. Not pick up after ourselves. Stake our claim. At least that’s what I’m realizing at this very moment. It’s a very quiet day at work, so I decided to do some spring cleaning.
I’ve found the following in my office: a cocktail dress, a suit, a suit jacket, 4 pairs of shoes, a bathing suit, a towel (because why wouldn’t I be prepared to go swimming at all times?), 5 socks, a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and half a pharmacy.
Mom, I want you to know that it’s not just you. I do this everywhere I go.