My daughter and I spent days getting the house clean and organized for the man's return. As I sit here in a house torn apart, I wonder why we bothered. His returns are always like this. Everything that is put away gets pulled out, boxes or bags get emptied, and doorways and cabinets get blocked. It makes me tense. I can't reach the trash can, dishwasher, or most of the storage pieces around the ground floor. It's so awkward, I haven't been able to keep up with most of the kitchen cleaning, making my cooking less than precise or as enjoyable as I have been finding it lately. Every available horizontal surface, from the floor to the chairs to the mantle shelves are stuffed with debris. I'm trying to leave it alone, but I am twitchy and uncomfortable when the place looks like this, and it always makes my back hurt to move around it.
The good news is that he has been sorting through his dozens upon dozens of handmade carpets that he sent home over the last year and a half, cataloging them in his computer, making sure he has photos of each and every one, repacking and consolidating the tubs, and then carting them out to the garage. He packed the garage shelves more tightly as well, so there was enough space to get twelve tubs (so far) up off the floor. Parts of my house had a lot more room along the edges, suddenly, so of course we had to claim it for other things. The big cold front that chilled most of the country is moving through here today and tonight, and I have pulled in several of the less hardy plants off the deck. I doubt the Persian shield or the fuchsia will survive inside with limited light, but I'm going to make the attempt. I should have better luck with the Boston fern that came in today. As I sit now, I am looking at a gorgeous cat palm that will be, well, catted to death by New Year's Day, mark my words. If I had the light, I would bring every remaining plant inside, and turn this place into a jungle. Alas, even if I attempt it, Zoe would be there to stomp on my plans for a happy indoor garden. She digs in my lemon tree, tips over pots with narrow bases, and proves that she isn't far removed from her feral formative months. (Every time I turn around, she's on top of something new, like the upper cabinets in the kitchen or in the storage space above the garage. She's not making this easy on me, or on her daddy who was thoroughly clawed when he rescued her from the garage.)
On every homecoming, I am reminded of one of our earliest reunions, way back in the salad days. We were renting a basement apartment from my daughter's godmother, and I was failing to keep up with the inordinate amount of mess that my girls and their father can generate. He went away for a week or two, I think either with the boy scout troop for which he was a leader at the time, or maybe on a temporary field assignment with some environmental biology organization. In his absence, I finally had an opportunity to scrub the apartment clean to my standards (even if it still would have horrified my grandmothers). I was so happy, finally, and I could relax. The man literally barely made it through the door, before he dropped his suitcase, kicked off his shoes, shed his coat, and everything started hitting the floor. I stared in disbelief, mutely choking and gesturing at the debris field. Nearly every homecoming has followed this pattern. If I were smart, and a bit more affluent, I would probably just hire someone to take care of it for me, so that I stop taking it all so personally. As it is, it drives me a bit mad. It's making me crazy. But then, what doesn't?
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