My mother flies into town this evening, and I am so excited to see her. We will take long walks along the beach, browse for used books and furniture, and linger in the unique and numerous coffee shops for which the city is famous. And so far today I have swept (hall, living room, office, bedroom, bathroom), dusted (living room, bathroom, office, kitchen), and scrubbed (tub, toilet, sink).
To put this in context: my mother majored in home economics as a college student, and my mother is famous in my marriage for casually commenting, "you girls don't like to clean."
Therefore I scoop the hair out of the drain, wipe mystery grime off the moldings, and otherwise clean the apartment within an inch of its dust and soap-scum ridden life (conscious that most of it was last cleaned before her last visit). I ponder the new crop of tumbleweeds that catch on the electrical cords and the sticky things that help chairs slide on the floor. Some of it is hair, and I can even discern whose, but how come this self-attracting fluff? Maybe it's the stuff that used to be where there are now holes in other things. A new definition of antimatter. Chores, like car rides, are so good for philosophy. I'm sure Newton did plenty of both.
In my labors, and to avoid worrying that I am fanning the smoldering fire of my perfectionism, I tell myself that a good host anticipates a guest's needs and provides an environment that makes them feel comfortable. Furthermore, this is an important exercise in perspective-taking. I am a considerate, empathetic daughter who is comfortable in herself and above all, very grown up. I put the broom in the hall closet, envisioning my mother next to me and spying each exposed grain of sand and wisp of dust in the shadows.
When I imagine an omniscient mother, it is easy for me to understand Western religion. There's an appeal to having a wondrous and terrible overseer, when the alternative is only you.
Update: within hours of arrival
To put this in context: my mother majored in home economics as a college student, and my mother is famous in my marriage for casually commenting, "you girls don't like to clean."
Therefore I scoop the hair out of the drain, wipe mystery grime off the moldings, and otherwise clean the apartment within an inch of its dust and soap-scum ridden life (conscious that most of it was last cleaned before her last visit). I ponder the new crop of tumbleweeds that catch on the electrical cords and the sticky things that help chairs slide on the floor. Some of it is hair, and I can even discern whose, but how come this self-attracting fluff? Maybe it's the stuff that used to be where there are now holes in other things. A new definition of antimatter. Chores, like car rides, are so good for philosophy. I'm sure Newton did plenty of both.
In my labors, and to avoid worrying that I am fanning the smoldering fire of my perfectionism, I tell myself that a good host anticipates a guest's needs and provides an environment that makes them feel comfortable. Furthermore, this is an important exercise in perspective-taking. I am a considerate, empathetic daughter who is comfortable in herself and above all, very grown up. I put the broom in the hall closet, envisioning my mother next to me and spying each exposed grain of sand and wisp of dust in the shadows.
When I imagine an omniscient mother, it is easy for me to understand Western religion. There's an appeal to having a wondrous and terrible overseer, when the alternative is only you.
Update: within hours of arrival
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