| Sunny Side Up Feb.27,2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson A houseful of blessings They splash life and laughter all over the house, these college students. For three years they�ve accompanied my daughter home on holiday weekends and semester breaks�nine days this time. They sleep on beds and floor, upstairs and downstairs; they spread their books and projects from one end of the dining table to the other. They sprawl on the carpet and the couch reading and talking. They eat everything I cook�slather it with sky-high praise. Freed of their rigorous schedules, our �kids� sleep late and stay up long after the Preacher and I haul our weary bodies out of their way. In the morning, they fetch their own brunch, cheerfully rooting through the fridge to find something delectable to fry with their eggs. When deadlines dictate, they spend hours at the computer writing essays and using long words I don�t understand. But they shuck their academic skins with abandon, these scholars. They do silly things like fling open the front door and race in their bare feet through deep snow to the curb and back. They have pillow fights, tickle tussles and water battles. They crown me with tiaras of soap bubbles. They drink too much strong coffee, listen to music that makes my heart race and rent sappy movies to mock. They have long philosophical discussions, mixing thoughts of social injustice and Saskatoon berries in the same conversation. They indulge in lengthy phone conversations and baths. Those who can, pound the pianos at every opportunity. Rick and I, having grown accustomed to quiet�sometimes candlelit�dinners for two, find our mealtimes remarkably altered when they�re here. For one thing, our nine-foot dining table isn�t as lonely. While we break bread together in fine family tradition, they regale us with stories of eating bugs, the longest fart they ever heard (or made), dormitory pranks, and who broke up with whom last semester. After dinner, they wash the dishes, sometimes singing in four-part-harmony while they splash and scrub. In the living room, I turn off the news to listen. An angel choir doing my dishes! Our student guests will leave in a few days. We�ll send them off with a prayer; then, like a tongue groping for a missing tooth, I�ll check for things left behind�hoping to find something, anything to remind me of the pleasure they brought. I�ll change the sheets, collect the laundry, finally sit down at my blank computer screen and try to write. They�re always hard, those first few hours of silence�this time even harder. This lot graduates this spring. They�ve sprouted wings and won�t be returning. My nest suddenly feels colossal�hollow and eerily vacant. And I�m quite tired. But for every meal I�ve dished out, every bed I�ve made up, every scrap of extra work over the last three years�God has paid me back in abundance. What richness could compare with angel choirs scouring pots in my kitchen, and the honor of someone else�s child calling me �Mom�? I think none. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |