Time to clean house: Momma’s coming to town. I grew up in this woman’s house. I spent eighteen years not making my bed, scattering my homework across the dining room table, leaving coke cans in her car, lying around in my pajamas, and raiding her closet and fridge. And now that she’s going to come visit me in
my principality, I’m going to put on airs? Who am I kidding?
In truth, I want my living space to project the gold star job she did as a mother. No TLC Clean Sweep episode here. I’m okay. I also feel the need to introduce her to my friends. If she sees how well-adjusted they are (or at least seem), then she’ll see: I’m okay.
My mother is a professional worrier. She worries about: not having time, her Yorkshire pudding falling, First Amendment law, her petunias being trampled by her newfie, not riding enough (the thing she loves most), fairness, saying goodbye, and Obamacare. But she doesn’t worry about me. She’s always known I’d be okay. And maybe I’ll believe it too if I scrub hard enough.
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