20.

THE ORGANIZER

A silent cheer to myself as the cab pulls up to my parents’ house in Florida. “I’m going in!” It’s 9:00 p.m., Sunday night. Mom and Dad have been asking me to help them reorganize and pitch, and I’m happy to do it. One full week of sorting linen closets, kitchen cupboards, and bathroom cabinets! Setting up systems for bills and correspondence! Braving storage boxes full of ancient travel guides and souvenirs! Separating true keepsakes from “why on earth are we still keeping these?” I’ll work ten hours a day, if that’s what it takes! I’m marching in as the adult—with energy, focus, and the cool, clear, decision-making skills it’s possible to have when it’s someone’s mess besides mine.

“Welcome, sweetie!” Mom and Dad greet me at the door with beaming smiles and warm hugs. “We’re so happy you’re here!”

“Me too,” I say. “I have big plans for this visit!”

“Us too!” Mom answers as I pull my suitcase in the door. “Our dear friends Kirsten and Gene are stopping over for breakfast tomorrow. They can’t wait to see you! Then Dad made reservations at the cute seafood place you love for lunch, and there’s a wonderful new tropical plant exhibit we want to take you to before dinner!”

“But I came to help!” I interject.

“Oh, and thank heavens for that. We need your help!” Dad says.

“So much to do here!” Mom echoes.

“Okay then,” I say, “Tuesday! First thing Tuesday, I’ll—”

“Mom has both of you signed up for a stretch class Tuesday,” Dad interrupts, “and there’s a ball game on TV we can watch in the afternoon!”

I’ve been here three minutes. Two days are already gone. “Okay,” I say with all my adultness. “Starting Wednesday, I’m tackling all those projects you’ve said you wanted to do!”

Mom pulls the calendar off the wall. “Dad has a periodontist appointment we were hoping you could take him to Wednesday morning,” she notes, “and then we have matinee tickets for the tango troupe that’s in town!”

“Thursday?” I try weakly.

“Thursday, Friday, and Saturday are pretty full. Then Sunday’s church and lunch afterward, and then you’ll have to pack to fly back on Monday!” Mom wraps her arms around me in a hug. “Your whole visit will be over!”

“But I came to help!” I try.

“Oh, and thank heavens for that. We need your help!” Dad says, joining the hug from the other side.

“So much to do here!” Mom echoes, squeezing more tightly. I’m an actual human panini now. Me and my big agenda squashed between layers of parents. Now I’ll not only need to reorganize their whole house, I’ll need to do it in between all the activities they so sweetly planned. Somehow stuff my agenda into their agenda. I wiggle out of the middle. “I love you, Mom and Dad,” I say, “but we should get to bed. Big day tomorrow!”

Big, big day, I think, pulling my suitcase to the guest room. But I’m up to the job. I know how to operate in Mom Mode. I did it for my child, I can do it for my parents. Break tasks into tiny goals that I can achieve while they do complicated things like put on socks and shoes. Make use of every second of their naptimes! And most important . . . wake up two hours before they do!

Day 1: 5:00 a.m.

I quietly lift one piece of paper off one stack on the kitchen counter when . . .

“Sweetie! Why are you up so early?!” Mom asks, walking into the kitchen.

I drop the papers, startled, and turn my back to the counter to face her.

“Why are you up so early?” I ask.

“I wanted to make sure I set the coffeemaker on auto,” she says.

“It’s on, Mom. See the little red button? It’s all set! Go back to bed!” I say, trying to shoo her out.

“Why are you up so early?” she asks again, more awake this time.

“I . . . um . . . just thought I’d straighten things up a little in here,” I answer.

“What things?” Mom asks, suddenly looking very wide awake.

“Why are you two up so early?” Dad asks, marching into the kitchen.

“She’s straightening things up on the counter!” Mom announces.

“What things?” Dad asks, his wide-awake eyes scanning the countertop.

“Just a few . . . Why are you up so early, Dad?” I ask, more than a little frustrated at having been caught in the act of trying to help.

“We like everything on the counter right where it is,” Dad says.

“It’s five in the morning! Let’s talk later! Go back to bed!” I say.

“We can’t go back to bed unless you go back to bed so we’ll know you aren’t trying to straighten anything up!” Mom says.

“Fine! We’re all wide awake now!” I say. “I was simply going to pull your bills out of this pile by your phone and make folders for them in your office.”

“We always keep our bills on the counter,” Mom says firmly.

“I thought I could at least toss out the junk mail that’s in the same pile,” I suggest.

“We need to open all those before we toss them because the mail carrier went to all the trouble to deliver them,” Dad answers.

“Also we reuse the envelopes,” Mom adds.

“How about if I just get rid of old newspapers?” I ask, picking up a small stack.

“No! Those might have articles we might need to clip for people!”

“How about a used sticky note??” I ask, picking one off the counter and holding it in the air. “Can I throw out one used sticky note with a grocery list from last Thanksgiving?!”

“No! I wrote the Holecs’ new address on the back of that!” Mom says, plucking it from my hand.

“You use the backs of sticky notes??”

“You don’t use the backs of sticky notes??”

I raise a mangled piece of wire in the air. “Here!” I say. “One stretched-out paper clip! Can we get rid of one stretched-out paperclip??”

Mom and Dad stare at me as though I’ve lost my mind, which I sort of have at 5:15 a.m.

“Don’t be silly, honey,” Dad says. “We keep the stretched-out ones in case we need something really tiny to poke a hole in something.”

“I can’t do this without coffee,” I say, walking to the machine to push the on button.

“No!” Mom rushes to stop me. “It’s all set for auto! See the little red light? We have to wait for the auto start!”

This launches a ten-minute search for the coffeemaker manual so I can prove it’s okay to override the auto button . . . which launches a discussion of how happy I’d be to set up a nice organized file of appliance manuals . . . which launches a review of how much they prefer their system of keeping appliance manuals in random drawers throughout the house . . . which launches absolutely nothing that was on my list for Day 1.

Day 2: Naptime

“How long do you think you’ll be sleeping?” I ask Mom as she and Dad head to their room for a late morning rest.

“No more than an hour,” Mom answers. “You should take a nap, too!”

“Great idea!” I say.

I wait for the sound of their door to close, then spring into action. I bolt down the hall to their tiny, packed home office, the area they’ve said is most overwhelming to them . . . calculate what’s needed to do a complete overhaul . . . rush to the office supply store . . . zoom through it with my list . . . rush back with $500 of pristine new file folders, pens, letter trays, a file cabinet, matching wastebaskets, and a bookshelf to assemble . . . stagger to the front door with the first load from the trunk of the car when . . .

“I thought you were taking a nap!” Dad says, standing in the open front door.

“Um . . . I just ran out to . . .” I begin.

“What happened to your nap?” Mom asks, appearing next to Dad.

“I wanted to get started on your office and . . . what happened to your naps?” I ask.

“What’s wrong with our office?” Mom asks.

“I hope you didn’t buy anything new!” Dad says, peering suspiciously at the bags in my arms. “We want to get rid of stuff!”

“The last thing we need is more stuff!” Mom chimes.

“I picked up a few things that will help you get rid of stuff! You just need some new systems, new supplies, and places to put things,” I offer, trying to not sag under the weight of the bags in my arms.

“No new supplies! We have all kinds of supplies!” Mom says.

“We have too many things!” Dad echoes. “The last thing we need is more places to put things!”

“Okay then,” I huff, exasperated. “I’ll take all this back. Is that what you want? Do you want me to turn around and return everything I just bought to help you do what you’ve said you needed done??”

“Heavens no, sweetie,” Mom says. “It’s time for lunch and then you have the ball game with Dad!”

“Returning things can be tomorrow’s project!” Dad says.

Day 3: Stolen Moments

Mom’s busy in the kitchen, cleaning lettuce leaves one by one, with the care of a surgeon. Dad’s busy studying The Weather Channel to see if he should be worrying about any family members in other states before we leave for his periodontist appointment. I tiptoe into their bathroom with the haul from last night’s secret 9:00 p.m. run to Target: shelf paper, pretty organizer baskets, a new shower curtain, and a new bath mat when . . .

“What’s all that?” Mom and Dad are suddenly both in the doorway of the bathroom staring at me, my Target bags, and the squirt bottle of all-purpose cleaner in my hand.

“I just thought I’d freshen up your bathroom a little!” I say in my best happy, helpful, trying-to-not-sound-agitated voice. “You’ve had the same shower curtain for forty years!”

“We like our shower curtain!” Mom states.

“And your bath mat—” I begin.

“We love our bath mat!” Dad states.

“I could at least get rid of some of the things in the cabinets you don’t need and organize the things you do need in nice, pretty baskets,” I try.

“We might need all the old things! We don’t need pretty baskets!” they counter.

I give up.

I stuff it all back in the Target bags, stand up, and face them.

“I came here to help!” I say. “You said you wanted help. You said every room in your house needed a total overhaul, and I came to do it!”

“Thank you, sweetie! We’re so grateful for your help!” Mom says, giving me a hug.

“There’s so much to do here!” Dad says, hugging me from the other side.

“But you won’t let me do anything!” I answer from the middle of the sandwich.

“Of course we will, sweetie! You can do anything! Anything at all!” they both say, squeezing me tight. “Just don’t move anything, change anything, throw anything out, put anything in a different spot, or spend any money!”

Days 4–7

Ditto.

Day 8: Goodbyes

Something always happens the morning I leave Mom and Dad’s house. It happens for my sisters when they leave, too. No matter how long the visit was—even if it felt way too long—it’s always suddenly way too short. We start missing one another while we’re still standing in the same room. In the last hour of the visit, everyone tries to say and do every single thing that didn’t get said or done in the days or weeks we were there. Everyone feels a great big need to give and forgive.

My sisters and I become more patient, thoughtful listeners. Dad makes piles of movies we never got to, books and magazines he thinks we might like. He checks and rechecks the flight schedule, The Weather Channel, road delays, and his wallet, to make sure he has a twenty-dollar bill to tuck in our hands. Mom cuts up little Baggies full of apple slices, carrots, sandwiches, chicken legs, nuts, and cookies—as if, since we won’t let her help pack our bags anymore, she can at least pack our stomachs. If they could, I think Mom and Dad would hop into our suitcases themselves.

Because it’s the morning I’m leaving, I spent longer than usual reading the paper with Dad and listening to his stories. I’m down to thirty minutes before my cab arrives, racing through the house to finish packing, when I hear Mom’s voice coming from the dining room.

“I’d love it if you could help me organize my stationery situation!” she calls.

I stop in my tracks and go back down the hall to where she sits at the table. “Now, Mom??” I ask, my arms loaded with things I still need to pack. “The cab will be here in half an hour!”

“You’re so good at making systems for things!” she says, gesturing to the piles of paper on the dining room table she must have pulled from all sorts of drawers and shelves while I was reading the paper with Dad this morning. Fifty years of random types of notepaper, envelopes, greeting cards, stickers, and stamps. There’s no need to remind Mom that I’ve been here for a week and this is exactly the kind of project I wanted to spend days tackling for her. I chuckle at the impossibleness. At Mom’s perfect timing.

This is her goodbye gift—as heartfelt as the chunk of coffee cake I saw her slip into my carry-on bag earlier. Mom knows I came on this trip to help, and she wants to help me help her before I go. She wants me to leave with the gift of having something checked off my list. And now I need to help her help me help her.

“Great idea, Mom!” I say. “Let’s see how far we can get!”

In the few minutes we have left, we admire Mom’s pretty notepaper . . . laugh as we read through some of her greeting card collection . . . start organizing her stash of rinsed-out plastic bags and flattened twist ties to use should we ever get a system started . . .

And then, way too soon, the cab honks, and suddenly my suitcase and I are at the door.

“If only you were staying another week to help us deal with all our messes!” Mom sighs and gives me a hug. “We’ll tackle it all on the next visit!” Dad announces, joining Mom from the other side. A farewell sandwich. Way too much emotion in the middle of this one for me to say much except “I’d better come back soon.”

And that’s how we left it. I’m on the plane back to California now. Everything—including the plan to go through everything some other time—is completely intact. When I come back again, everything will be exactly where it was before. Bills stacked with junk mail and old newspapers on the kitchen counter next to the phone. Office full of old files in ancient folders. Linen cabinets stuffed with history we never even opened. Untouched boxes of recipes, family pictures, and souvenir circus programs. Bathroom cabinet full of expired first-aid products, gift soap too pretty to use, vitamins no one takes anymore, lotions no one’s ever opened. In Mom and Dad’s house, relationships last forever. Nothing is ever wasted or discarded; everything has a purpose and another chance. No one ever divorces a shower curtain or breaks up with a bath mat. When you belong to Mom and Dad, you have a home forever.

I smile at 30,000 feet somewhere over Kansas. There’s something very comforting about knowing it will all be there when I get back. Something a little bit wonderful about having accomplished absolutely nothing on this visit.