My little brother is replacing my parents kitchen floor this week.
I know, right?!
Actually, I think he's just paying his thanks-for-taking-care-of-me-all-those-years tithing to the parents all in one week.
So when the phone call came that he could really use some help because it's Thursday and he needs to have to job done by Saturday night, that I-better-be-a-good-kid-too guilty feeling won out.
I picked the kids up from daycare and the three of us headed out to Fallon.
There was KFC (my dad's predictable like that)
A LOT of dusting and vacuuming (Em and Burrito each declared they need their very own upholstery vacuum for Christmas now)
Walls were scrubbed
A lot of critiquing was done over my lack of elbow grease cleaning power in the stove/oven area, and a few "Not good enoughs, keep cleaning" comments were made. Did I mention William's Type A personality.
And in between rinsing rags out and scrubbing walls we talked about family and all the mementos that line the kitchen walls. There are ceramics my Memere (my mother's mother) made in the 70s lining the tops of the cupboards above the refrigerator. I declared they are mine. When my mother dies of course. And then we laughed because I am, after all where Emma gets that statement from. And every baked bean pot I dusted and put back above the cupboards was declared "The One" that will hold Hal's ashes when he dies. How many bean pots does one man need?! Honestly.
Hours later, I packed my sleeping babies back into the car, took my dirty, tired, simple green smelling self home to take a shower and sleep.
And I am thankful that I was called home. Thankful for being able to help and for learning some new family history.