Forgetful

A week or so ago, my mom called to say that they'd be heading to Maquoketa to see some play that she really wasn't all that excited about going to with some friends that they don't really hang out with all that much on Sunday. I had said something to the effect of, Oh, you'll be close to Dubuque. I'll be home all day, feel free to swing by.

I went about life as normal for the rest of the week.

Sunday came, and I went to church, went to Megan's, then came home and dove into weeding the flowerbeds and spraying down my produce in the yard. I went in the house once and heard my phone beeping that I had missed a call. Hmmm...wonder who's call I missed? Oh well, back out to the garden. Less than an hour later, I heard a familiar voice calling me from the front yard. My dad.

I'm not sure what my face looked like when I turned around, but I would imagine one would have a similar look when given a horrible gift from a dear friend or when you are gazing at an ugly baby for the first time. You know. That look that you use a big awkward smile to disguise whatever may be going on underneath.

What was going on underneath: 1) I totally forgot that I mentioned they should stop by, 2) my house! I had baked up a storm yesterday and hadn't cleaned up the kitchen at all, not at all. It was laundry day, so my bedroom was looking like a hurricane had recently passed through, complete with the bed unmade and dust a half inch thick. And the bathroom - toothpaste in the sink, hair on the floor, shower wide open and filled with grime. Okay, think. Think! How are you going to fix this?

Deep breath...Would you like to come in? (There's that expression back on my face...)

Followed by, Please excuse my kitchen. I've been baking. And, I'm just going to go upstairs and wash up quick. (Flurry of wiping, grabbing, closing, piling...)

They ended up only staying for about ten minutes in all, just long enough to melt me into a puddle of humiliation, and they were on their way. I went back in the house to get a more objective look at what exactly my unexpected guests had seen. Counters were now wiped and not so bad. Bedroom stayed closed. No harm done there. And then there was the bathroom. Why does the bathroom look different? Well, it looked different because when my mom went up to use it, she finished the wiping and picking up that I had left behind. (I burst into tears right about now...)

Had it just been some family friends stopping by, I'm not sure I would have been so embarrassed. I would have laughed it off much easier. But my mom was there. And she was embarrassed. And she cleaned some things up so her friends didn't have to bear witness to my mishap. And that made me embarrassed. Very embarrassed.

She's always been so good at keeping house, a fact that bothered me greatly as a kid because messes (which I would argue are 90% of a child's life) were the enemy and needed to be fought off immediately. Our house was always ready for visitors, always shiny, always pristine. Even when we moved from one house to another, I don't remember a mess. Even while remodeling, no mess.

For me, every day is a mess. I did not receive whatever gift (or curse) of cleanliness that she did. If you put us head to head on the clean-o-meter, my house at its cleanest can't even compare to her's at its durtiest. And to make it worse, I actually enjoy a clean house when I do finally get it there. It's not that I don't like it. I'm just not all that good at it.

Okay, conclusion before this get's too long for anyone to desire to read... I love my mom, but I am not my mom. She will always be better at being clean than me. We were both embarrassed on Sunday. We'll both get over it. My priorities and day-to-day look different than her's. My home looks different than her's. And that's got to be okay. It's just got to be okay.

So, Mom (since I know you're reading this), I'm sorry that my house was a mess. You'll get over it. I'll get over it. I love you.