Less then an hour before I need to head off and pick up my parents at the airport. I've been like a mad woman this morning, trying to finish off the massive cleaning I started yesterday. Trying to find homes for the odd shoes, Playmobil, and pencils laying around. It's incredible how fast plastic can reproduce.
Funny thing is, I'm not sure why I'm getting all stressed out about having things nickel, aka perfect, when these parents of mine know darn well that my idea of putting things away is opening a closet and chucking everything in there.
When I was little, I dreaded cleaning day. I'd leave my room in a state of fabulous disaster in the morning, only to return home to find a carpet I hadn't seen in three months and a mountain of shit all over my bed. I couldn't just throw all of it back into my walk-in closet...or could I?
I think I started getting a little more concerned about house cleanliness when I moved into my flat in England. I shared that place with a boy who liked growning pot in his bedroom and a certified MENSA member who liked keeping all sorts of trash bags with all sorts of trash in them scattered around her postage stamp size room. It was after seeing our tea cups turned into petri dishes that I decided to embrace bleach and the vacuum cleaner and keep Luna and I well and truly safe in my room.
Since living in this house, I've taken on all new battles. The never-ending war against Lego, spider web hunting, and (NEW THIS SEASON!) tracking mouse poop. Most of the time, I'm able to keep the place in a relative state of cleanliness. But, the truth be told, I'd rather have all my teeth pulled out without a general anaesthetic then clean. And boy, does that show.
My parents have told me not to worry. It's not the floors they are coming to see. I know that's true but I'm still freaking about getting this place looking good. Good God, why do I worry about this? Will I care when I go visit Rosebud many years from now if her toaster is all crummy, or if Bubba-Love's kids have taken to creating mud pies in the lounge? So what if The Princess' ponies all have free access to the kitchen?
I'm deliberately not going to mentioning Mini-Husband here because I have a sneaking suspicion, even though he likes leaving his pjs and shoes all over the place right now, his anal attentive nature will take over in his late 20s and his place will be so clean, you could eat off the shower taps.
Parents know their children and they love us all the same. Amazing, isn't it?
So with now a half an hour to go, I've rechecked to see that I've got some tomato juice for BaPa and some Diet Coke for Kitty, not to mention a good supply of both red and white wine. I've got the simple needs covered so hopefully while they are being smothered with hugs from those little people they don't get to see enough of, they'll be happy to ignore all the dead plants and the multitude of candy wrappers that have set up camp in the couch.