On Thursday evening my mom flies into Omaha. She’s coming to see our new home and my sister’s new apartment. I feel the urge to clean up and organize and impress her, the way I always felt on December 23rd before our family’s Christmas Eve party. Mom would bake and make candies while I scrubbed the toilets and hid our clutter behind any door that allowed an inch of space.
I feel the way I did when us four kids were home schooled and we knew mom would be home any minute. We would throw the cushions back on the couch from “Hot Lava” and attempt to do two hours worth of chores in eight minutes. Throw away our tell-tale wrappers from those York Peppermint patties she thought she had cleverly hid above the stove in that tip-top cupboard. Turn off that record (yes I said “record”) that we were dancing around to and pretend we are concentrating on diagramming sentences (who am I kidding? I probably was).
Something about people visiting that makes me feel I have to be entertaining. Somehow more or more interesting than what I am: sitting around in green sweat pants and a long gray sweater watching DVR’d HBO shows from last night. My lofty goals and ambitions should be more than taking a day off next week. My future plans should entail more than another receipt from Furniture Row. I did plan out an exciting field trip we can all do together: hit up Costco. I’m going to mooch off that membership card mom’s got while I have the chance. Opportunity knocks. And I’m going to answer the door.