. . . except the grandparents are coming here. They have about an eight-hour drive, and they’ll be here in two hours.
And I’m typing a blog entry instead of picking up clutter. I’m typing it while listening to Janie practice piano—honey, slow down. It’s Jingle Bells, not the running of the bulls—but that’s just an excuse.
I’ll scrub toilets, bathtubs, dust, vacuum, sweep, wipe down stuff,disinfect potties, and do laundry,* but I’ve accepted that there’s no hiding that a couple of kids live in this house. Kids who own, among many other things, a library-worth of books, an orphanage of baby dolls, and seventeen Barbies and/or Barbie knockoffs.** I can control the kidscat, but I cannot eliminate it.
I”ll pick up for people,but not for family.
This rule means that I tend to adopt people into the clan with a shrug and a smile after only one or two visits—or less. But I feel even less guilt when my folks visit, because they not only are fully aware we have kids—and are responsible for fully half of the books and a third of the baby dolls—but visit expressly to see those kids.*** And bring them more stuff.
They’re actually coming up a day early this year to visit Janie’s school for Grandparent’s Day—I’m missing it, since I couldn’t get the morning off, but I’m superfluous anyway—which says a lot about their devotion. My parents are inhumanly busy, but not too busy to make time for family. And if that means Mom and Dad don’t have the time to pick up all the clutter from two dogs, five cats, Boy Scout expeditions, cane weaving projects, church doings, and a serious Harlequin romance jones when we visit . . . well . . .
That’s not such a bad act to follow.
But it’s time to put the kids to bath and bed—not that they’ll drop off before Grandma and Grandpa get here, but it’s the principle of the thing—and maybe get some writing done before they arrive.
I should probably also get my WIP off the dining room table so we can all eat dinner together . . . by tomorrow night at the latest.
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*Though my husband does most of it and I’m very, very blessed. I’m also moderating his comments. Love you!
**None of which are wearing the eighty-eleven pieces of clothing scattered around two bedrooms, and three of which are at this very moment jammed headfirst between the couch cushions. One is wearing a single, tiny, pink Manolo.
**And the cat, who loves my Dad so much he will not be separated from him for the duration. Toby pulls this, I’m so neglected and unloved big-eyed expression and mews like a kitten until Dad tells him what a handsome boy he is—it’s revolting to watch, especially from an eleven-year old, fifteen pound, feline snob.
Earful of Cider 