Payback's a Dirty Swiffer.

My parents just left my house after a five-day visit.  It's like I just hosted Motley Crue for a week. The bathroom is trashed, there is an insane amount of laundry festering in the hamper, and all my remotes are missing.   The kitchen floor is coated in an odd, sticky film, the couch cushions are dotted with mystery stains and I was able to my parents' movements throughout my house by following the trail of brownie crumbs they'd left behind.

I don't get it.  Are they doing it on purpose?  Do they mean to leave lights on all over the house? Don't they notice the coffee rings on the counter?  When brushing their teeth, did they aim for the bathroom mirror?  Did they not see the sink?

Or maybe there's something far more calculating, far more sinister going on.  Maybe this is payback for all the times my mother squawked at my to clean my room and I ignored her.  Or when my father howled about leaving lights on in empty bedrooms, claiming he owed PSE&G his firstborn son. 

Being a parent as made me see how important it is to teach kids to clean up after themselves. And it has made me realize why my mother uttered phrases like "I'm not your maid," and "the kitchen is closed," almost daily.  As I type this blog with dishpan hands and fingers weak from scrubbing the floor across which my parents managed to track assorted grime, I can't help but feel bested.  My parents-one, me-zero.

And as I watch my son proceed to throw his toys around the room in search of a cookie he started eating yesterday, I know that my time will come.   Soon he'll be chasing me around with a Swiffer, instead of the other way around.