The family is coming.
They will bring their significant others, and much else besides. Backpacks. Laptops. Probably even golf clubs.
They will arrive at some point tomorrow and stay throughout the weekend.
I have been preparing. The sheets have been washed, the refrigerator filled.
We’ve cut the grass and tidied the flowerbeds. The house has been dusted, the hardwoods swept, the carpets vacuumed.
The foyer will be littered with shoes. The music will be cranked. They’ll leave their empties on the counter and their jackets on the chesterfield. Every other outlet will be plugged with a charger, and every other surface will be home to sunglasses, wallets and keys.
The bathrooms will be cluttered with shaving kits and makeup bags, and we’ll go through the towels like crazy.
The dishwasher will be run, likely two times a day, and the grocery store visited just as often. We’ll have run low on milk, say, or on coffee, or on yogurt for the berries.
I’ll have the apron on the better part of the day. When the bacon and eggs are done, it will be time to make the marinade for the ribs. When the ribs are done, it will be time to whip the cream for the strawberry shortcake.
Normally, of course, when it’s just the husband and me, we’ll live in three rooms in the house. Two litres of milk will last all week. We’ll likely forego the strawberry shortcake, not to mention the whipping cream.
We’ll visit the grocery store twice a week, and run the dishwasher just as often.
We’ll retire to the bedroom to watch the news at nine o’clock, and hang our jackets in the hall closet, where they belong.
The sheets in the kids’ bedrooms will not be washed for weeks on end, because no one will have slept on them.
There’ll be no shoes in the front hall, no unavailable outlets, no empties on the counter.
Not this weekend. The house will be noisy, and more than a little messy. We won’t be going to bed at nine. We won’t keep the food budget down.
The family’s coming this weekend. And I couldn’t be more thrilled.
