The Gift

While we sat at dinner last night I heard the vacuum cleaner turn on upstairs. 

Being Sunday, I assumed it was TJ’s son doing his weekly chores in his room. You know, the quick electric broom sweep around anything that's fallen on his bedroom floor. But it went on too long. Then the to and fro motor sounds told me the landing was being cleaned, methodically. Definitely not Raj. 

Melissa? She offered to do it  a few weeks ago when we asked for a dusting in anticipation of a new housemate’s arrival. But we hadn’t asked today at all. (In fact, I was planning on coordinating a group cleaning day one Sunday mid-April to see how that felt and get us all into the habit of sharing the task.  ‘Fraid it’s too many years a mom, and project manager.)

As I cleared the table, the clunk of the heavy machine was being worked down the treads. Twenty minutes later, Stephen carried the vacuum back to the laundry room. 

“Wow, Stephen, what a gift! Thanks for doing the stairs and landing.”

So here’s the thing: He shrugged in a surprised way as if to say, “Huh? Well, as long as I was vacuuming my suite…yeah, of course. No biggie.”

I tried to explain that living in this household with just our own kids meant cleaning was a “learn-to-maintain-yourself-if-you-ever-want-to-be-independent” lesson. Always. It was perpetual parental push (or a give-in and just get it done) exercise. And it was the norm for so long that I was totally surprised by Stephen's choice to do more. What was needed in the moment. 

There was this emotional rush through me…   “Yeah, this is what it feels like to live with other adults in my house. Even ones who are my kids’ peers. People who have lived on their own for even a bit take possession of and pride in their space. And yes I may be more welcoming than some other owners, but I tell you, we’ve lucked out!

I sent them both a thank you email this morning to return the emotional rush, ...just a little.