Blessed by this mess

“Why are we cleaning the house?” my husband and I ask each other as we scrub bathrooms, whisk away inch-thick layers of dust, and vigorously vacuum.

The obvious answer? Company is coming. After months of eating side by side at a ten-person table, we anticipate a weekend visit from our son and his family.

Hubby and I normally live like college students without food service. So now, we join in a desperation attempt to dispel our squalor.

When our visitors pull into the driveway, though, we forget cleaning — and everything else.

“Grandma! Grandpa!”

With the appearance of two miniature humans, the universe swings back into place.

Contrariwise, how can everyday life explode? Their nonstop noise mimics a cross between opera’s highest sopranos and a twin rocket liftoff, accented with assorted bangs and crashes.

And fun.

Hubby and I have forgotten hide-and-seek’s basic rules, such as: grandparents should avoid concealing themselves where they will end up in body casts. I did recall that a grandma counting slo-o-owly to twenty can finish three cups of hot coffee. I still know how to kiss boo-boos when mean ol’ folding closet doors chomp little fingers.

However, when the Dynamic Duo’s escalating energy demands a hike, I forget how fast they can disappear. My sixty-something body balks at a two-mile dead run. Intermittent grandma jog is the best I can do.

My compensation for aching muscles and tongue-hanging-out respiration rate? Dandelion bouquets, picked by chubby little hands, treasured in a bunny vase that once held similar arrangements offered by their daddy.

The hike has indeed slowed Jonathan and Thomas from a blur to human forms. When rain falls, they want to sit inside and play games. A blessed metamorphosis.

Jonathan, the six-year-old, chooses Ticket to Ride, a board game abounding in train routes, distances, directions and schedules. Grandma, who antagonizes GPS’S and mostly remembers to buy gas when her car runs out, pushes this one off on Grandpa.

Instead, Thomas, the three-year-old, and I revel in delicious games of Candy Land. We drool at stops in the Lollipop Forest and Princess Frostine’s ice-cream kingdom (no calories, right?). Twice, his token is within spitting distance of the Candy Castle, but disastrous cards bearing a candy cane and a deceptively smiling gingerbread man send him back near the beginning. When I win, I hold my breath. Past grandparenting victories sometimes resulted in showers of game pieces and tears. After seven grandchildren, though, I have learned a thing or two.

“Thomas, King Kandy and I invite you to our party at the castle!”

His big smile rewards my ingenuity. Our game tokens join in a mad, happy dance. We snarf enough imaginary candy to give us both bellyaches.

Meanwhile, Grandpa, the Board Game Whiz of the World, has lost two games of Ticket to Ride.

Not content with pretend sweets, Thomas and I bake desserts. Spending quality time with grandchildren is an excellent excuse to jump off the healthy bandwagon, so we mix shortcake for Sunday’s strawberry treat. We also make cupcakes. Thomas displays a superior culinary talent for squishing butter. His brother is better at decorating, adding exactly the right number of sprinkles and/ or M&M’S® on the frosting. Later, I light a three-for-thomas candle on one cupcake and a six-for-jonathan on another and help the boys carry them, singing “Happy Birthday” to Daddy, who conveniently is turning 36.

The remainder of the weekend is filled with reading storybooks, singing as we stream church, moaning over the Cubs’ woes (our son has properly indoctrinated his children), and ticktocking my old college metronome. Our grandsons also create ginormous Matchbox car pileups in the ancient Fischer Price toy parking garage that has survived 40 years of our descendants’ collisions. So far, none of their driving habits have reflected these sessions. Dare we hope Jonathan’s and Thomas’s won’t, either?

All too soon — or maybe, just in time — they go home. After reluctant hugs all around, our beloved visitors leave. Hubby and I wave from the porch.

The house listens for them.

“It’s awfully quiet,” I say.

Sunday dinner dishes crowd kitchen counters. Toys and books carpet every room. Apple peelings, chocolate crumbs and half-drunk cups of milk abound.

Hubby looks at me. “So tell me again. Why did we clean the house?”