April 11, 2008

Still a Parent-Pleaser

Hello. My name is Mary. I'm 56 years old and I'm still trying to please my parents.

They are coming for a visit, and the Hanna household has been in a tizzy, as if the folks were bringing a TV crew with them and we would end up on an episode of "Does This Daughter Measure Up?"

It's ridiculous, really, as Keeper is quick to point out.

We've spent nearly $1000 and buckets of elbow grease to get the yard fixed up. I told Keeper that I was tired of looking at the overgrown state of things, but really I was thinking about how my father, within 5 minutes of his arrival, always asks me where I keep the clippers. I mean, just because the vines grabbed him and slammed him to the bricks last time they visited, he feels compelled to hack at them mercilessly. The last time this happened, we sent Keeper on an errand so that he couldn't stop the extreme manicure halfway through the process.

This year, we've done something radical. We tore out the vines altogether. Of course, that exposed the sorry state of the fence, which we had to paint. I don't want to see my 84-year-old father scrambling behind the hedge to paint the pickets.

I'm out of time, and things aren't yet perfect. The front porch has some dead plants still, which will prompt my Dad to suggest a trip to the nursery. The grass is so bad that we need to invest in sod to make it presentable. The trellis which once held the man-eating vines sits empty and forlorn.

Last week, I drove Keeper insane with my push to finish each and every project. "You don't understand!" I cried. "If it's not done, they'll say something!"

"Mary," Keeper replied in the strong, steady voice he uses to calm his clients, "Of course they'll say something. They'll say how nice it looks and then mention something that still needs work."

"That what I mean!" I said, my voice indicating my growing panic. Really, you'd think they were going to ground me or something. Take away my driving privileges for not getting my chores done.

"They'll make suggestions because they want to be useful," said Mr. Unruffled. "Let's leave something for them to help us with."

He proceeded to make some suggestions of his own of what my parents could work on while they're here. I vetoed every one of them out of concern for their medical conditions. Painting the living room? Not a good choice for someone with asthma. Planting some bushes? I don't want Dad to lift anything. Washing the windows? Cleaning out the closets? Shampooing the carpet? "Well, heck," I snapped. "Why don't we just have Mom carry some furniture up to the attic?" I burst into tears.

It was just the catharsis I needed. My parents, I am now prepared to acknowledge, are coming to see US. They will celebrate with us our recent joys and accomplishments. They will not make a list of what we've left undone. We'll eat together and talk and laugh and enjoy a bit of sightseeing.

So, if my parents are not the least bit judgmental about the state of my to-do list, just who is that stern taskmaster barking out orders? That would be me.

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