Signs of Life

When I was little, I loved going downstairs the day after my parents entertained.  There were signs of life everywhere.  In our normally pristine living room that no one was allowed to mess up, my brother and I would find half empty dishes of nuts, cocktail glasses with squeezed-out limes floating in clear liquid pools, baskets of stale potato chips, and crumpled napkins with lipstick smudges on them.  I could still hear the adults laughing and talking as I wandered around, sampling the leftovers and taking notes on what was popular (olives and onion dip) or not (carrot sticks and mystery cheese).

I am Type A, just like my mother, and usually cannot rest until the kitchen is cleaned up, the rooms are tidied and everything is in order for the next day.  But sometimes something festive and magical occurs, if you let it, when you have friends and family over, filling your house up with attention and energy.  I like to get caught up in the moment and consider myself on top of my game if I remember to blow out the candles before hitting the hay.

It’s the only time I can stomach coats left thrown over the backs of chairs, dirty dishes in the sink or crumbs on the floor.  The more wine glasses to wash, the better.  The mood is especially maudlin when I can still smell the aroma of whatever we cooked and served for dinner the night before.

I am trying to take this feeling and spread it out over the rest of my mornings with the boys in the house.  When I injure my foot on a Lego piece on my way to make coffee, or see backpacks and lacrosse sticks cluttering the hallways, rather than letting fumes of frustration that I am raising lazy slobs creep up, I smile and think about how truly fortunate I am to be living with them.