the boys come home to visit

Warning bells should have gone off when my son said he was coming home with his wife and baby to see how much his childhood home had changed after our remodeling project. But, no warning bell sounded as I dusted the bookshelves, urged my husband to clear away as much of the remodeling debris as he could and we re-arranged the furniture.
I made up the bed in a room that used to be my son’s and laid out toys, books and stuffed animals and stacks of my latest garage sale finds in baby clothing Thursday night, I sighed happily, the house was perfect: Counters cleared of dishes and food, floors swept and washed clean and the dining room table free of the daily clutter of opening mail.
I don’t know why I bothered.
They came, marveled at the new, open look in the living room, told us it all looked fantastic and began to unload their car. They hauled in luggage, baby toys, baby food, oriental vegetables and trash from traveling. Snacks and drinks cluttered the counter and table. Suitcases and baskets of clothes lined the walls of the guest room. Shoes, socks and diapers quickly decorated the living room.
The my youngest son came home from college with an overflowing laundry bag labeled, “Hi, Mom. I’m home,” a backpack with notebooks spilling out and his camera, case, film and albums of the photos. Since he was assigned to sleep in the living room, his gear landed in the corner behind the lounge chair. I have grown accustomed to college clutter and welcome the suitcases and snacks of the visiting sons and their wives. I had forgotten however just how much babies add to the confusion of living especially after they begin to walk.
Just like all my children, the grandbaby picked up keys, books and important pieces of paper that she left any place except where she found the stuff. She pulled picture books off the bottom bookshelf for me to read to her and put none of them back. Finger food went into her mouth, down her shirt, on her chair and to the floor beneath her chair. When the baby saw the toys I had laid out for her, she picked them up one by one, cooed an excited baby “Wow!” and casually dropped each one as she reached for something else.
She continually reminded me how many things are not childproof: The framed family pictures my daughter and I arranged on the end tables, the breakable dishes I had moved to lower cupboards after I no longer had toddlers around and my basket of cross stitch projects.
And I loved every minute of it. I talked, shopped, cooked and played with the baby. After the last one left, it took less than an hour to pick up, wash the floor and put away the dishes. I sat down and remembered what older women had told me years ago, “Don’t worry about the house when your children are young. Enjoy them while you can. You will have plenty of years when they are gone to clean the house.”
How right they were.