When the parents come to town

It’s a funny thing.  I’m not a perfectionist by any stretch.  Any stretch.  And yet, I really do like to have the house clean before either set of parents come.  Not crazy, baseboard, top-of-the-molding-and freezer-clean, just tidy.  Dishes done, guest bathroom wiped down, beds made, their room vacuumed.  Not over-the-top, but ready.  I do like the floor mopped too.  Just so it’s not sticky.  If I’m honest with you, which you know I am, I like the idea of having it look like a Bed and Breakfast.  I want visitors to feel pampered and like the guests.  But at the same time, of course like family.  Which is why I don’t care that we get back to regular life once they’ve gotten here.  Just initially I like it to look nice.  Ready for them.  Like we made an effort to acknowledge their visit.  I guess that’s why it’s hard not knowing exactly when they’re coming sometimes.  Because I’m not usually home during the days, so I end up pushing things to the edge since Callum is sleeping in the sheets of their bed until the morning of their arrival.  But both sets are always so gracious and accommodating, no matter what state the house is in.

I also prefer to do the cooking when they’re here.  For much the same reason.  I like to treat them.  Like a Bed and Breakfast.  After all the years they've pampered us and taken care of us as kids, I want to return the favor.  I want them to just relax and catch up on their reading and have their dinners presented to them.  A treat for them.  Kind of how a salad or sandwich tastes better if someone else makes it for you.  I want them to not have to have any concern about the preparation; I want them to really feel like they’re on vacation and having a little break for a few days.  We like to take Todd’s parents out for lunch because they don’t get to each out much.  And I look to cook for my parents because they don’t do much cooking anymore.  I like to make cookies for Todd’s dad and cinnamon rolls for mine.  I know both sets of parents like healthy, homemade meals.  And I like doing that for them.

I also don’t need a lot of help with the dishes.  They've done dishes for years.  I want them to take just a few days off.  Besides, each kid has a part to play in clearing and putting away the leftovers and washing and loading and emptying the dishwasher.  It’s all organized; they’ve been on it for years.  It’s good for them.  And again, our parents do their own dishes all the time.  I want them to have a little vacation.  It’s not that I have a special way I like the dishwasher loaded.  Are you kidding?  I just want them to have a little break.

Each set of parents is different in what they want to do.  Todd’s parents are content to sit and look out the window or walk around our yard or read on the Kindle.  When my parents come we’re all up and showered and ready for the day early, which always entails shopping, no matter how many times my mom tells me she just wants to run into Dillard’s and then we’ll be home for the rest of the day to just relax and watch movies.  Todd’s parents sometimes go off and do their own thing—whether it’s a day trip up the mountain or a little visit to Kohl’s.  Both moms will sit and read, which I love.  Because then I can cook for them.  I love that Todd’s parents will play games with the kids after school and again with the big kids and Todd late into the night.  My mom is story-teller extraordinaire, and I love the way she reads to the kids.  It’s a tradition that my dad always takes the kids for tacos.  There’s nothing I like more than for the grandparents to talk about their lives as children and young people.  I like the connection that creates between our kids and their grandparents.

My mom and dad fade early.  Nine is getting late.  But my mom is up about six, reading the paper, putting on her make-up.  I tip-toe past her to go exercise.  I need to wake up a bit.  I’m not as chipper first-thing and need my alone-time.   My dad sleeps in.  And takes a nap later.  Todd’s parents have all sorts of energy and his dad can stay up late with the boys playing games till all hours of the night.  They usually get up when we do.  Who can sleep through all that racket?  My mom nods off throughout the day.  Todd’s parents last all day.

This is the truest confession, the most honest assessment, a peek into my soul.  But I find myself being so different with each set.  Todd’s parents are really laid-back, but for some reason I find myself being up-tight when they’re here.  Extra clean, more tightly scheduled, efficient, fast.  It perplexes me.  And bothers me that I unconsciously do that.  My mom is naturally all those things, and so I swing the other way when she’s in town.  I feel myself pulling away when they want to make plans, I find myself being lackadaisical.  I do try to pick up and keep things tidy, but I’m not as hyper-vigilant with crumbs, for instance, as I am with Todd’s parents.  I know I’m nuts.  I think what it’s about is me wanting to prove in some twisted way that I’m not the same as them, that I’m my own person, valuable and competent, but just in a different way from them.  Maybe because I can’t be quite the same or as good as they are in the ways they parent and run their households, so I emphasize our differences.  Is that it?  I just barely started realizing I do this and how inconsistent it is.  And I think I’m crazy.  But I just confessed this all to a friend who admitted to me she’s the same way.  I felt validated, but I still don’t know why I’m different with each set when in reality I’m a mix of those two extremes.  I like a clean house, but sometimes the clutter gets away from me, along with the blinds and ironing.  I keep a loose schedule, but I’m neither over-programmed or sitting home all day.  I’m efficient, yet I like to play games and just sit and visit and watch movies and read fluff magazines as much as anyone, that’s why we have them.  Along with a million puzzles and games.  It’s not like I’m completely different from myself when the parents are around, that’s so much work;  I just feel myself pulling a little in one direction or the other for some reason.  So weird.  But I can tell this is why I’m more irritable and grumpy when either set of parents comes to visit.  Because I’m not being entirely true to who I am.

But in thinking about this while driving the other day, I realized something that maybe you can relate to.  Maybe not you men, but possibly some women out there.  I don’t really care what most people think these days.  I feel confident that I know my heart and my intentions, what our family is dealing with, and what my relationships are like with the people I care about.  So I just do my best and assume everyone else is doing the same.  And yet, for some reason—I think it’s because Todd and my kids and our extended families matter the most to us—I do care what the parents think, both sets.  At least somewhat.  They don’t know the whole story either.  How could they without living with us day-in and day-out for years on end?  I just hope they feel like their grandkids are in good hands.  And yet, what does it matter?  I know.  It’s no big deal.  I’m doing the best I can.  I feel vulnerable that it comes up in my thoughts.  And I wonder why it even does.  I kind of hate that.  We joke that Todd never has to worry.   My parents might like him more than they like me.  They wanted me to marry him before I  knew I’d want to marry him.  He never has to wonder where they’re coming from, they adore him.  I love it, and it makes me laugh.

So maybe everyone has a few paragraphs in them about what it’s like when the parents come to visit.  Maybe not.  Most of you are smart enough to not analyze things this much.  But one of my main purposes for even writing this blog is to help us all feel our humanness, to recognize that we’re all the same in some ways.  We all have parents who come into our lives intermittently, and I just wonder what it’s like in your home when they do.  As much as we anticipate their visits and are excited to see them, I almost always hug them goodbye with a little sadness in my heart for letting these kinds of things mar our visits.  I feel a twinge of regret for not completely being myself (is that even possible with guests in the house for several days?), for letting expectations get the better of me, for not just basking in our short days together.  Over the years I’ve gotten better, and this Christmas really was our best ever.  When I think about that, it makes me want to rekindle whatever worked and remind myself that it’s not about getting the work done, making the house look nice, what kind of mom or wife I appear to them to be, or anything else like that.  The best times we have are when I’m myself, relaxed, and open to whatever transpires. Because I think that’s all they want when they come to visit anyway.