I remember the first big holiday meal we cooked in our own house for guests.  Linda and I suddenly felt like real adults.  Sure, having kids forces you to grow up fast.  But we were quite amazed that we could get a roast, mashed potatoes, and Yorkshire pudding on the table at the same time without burning down the house or poisoning anyone.

I love to cook.  Mincing rosemary and fussing over a roast is my meditation. Kitchen tag-teaming with my wife and daughter is a bonding experience.  The guttural sounds of guests too busy chewing to talk is our acclamation.  While we clean up as we go, the mess piles inexorably behind.  A greasy cutting board and crystal caked with eggnog trail in my wake.  But, it’s done.  Five hours of cooking reduced to bones in 15 minutes.  Life is good.

Now,  I’ve cleared the blast radius.  Others are performing triage on the mashed potato stickies and fine china.  I’m outta there. This escape used to make me feel guilty.  Then my son moved in temporarily with his fiancée to pause between houses.  Tonight he has inherited these uglies.  He’s very good at cleaning.  Mandy has trained him well.   Now, I can see the true circle of life coming to fruition before my eyes.  Then:  we cleaned up, picked up, and propped up.  Now:  they are cleaning up and picking up.  They were remarkable propping up my 91-year old mother-in-law.

Soon, Sean and Mandy will do one of these in their new house.  I know that the world today has forced them to grow up faster than we did.  But I wonder if they’ll experience that same grown-up feeling when it all hits the table.

I suppose I’ll be doing the dishes that night.