My mom is late for everything. If you tell her to be somewhere at a certain time, it's a pretty safe bet that she'll be at least fifteen minutes late. Her problem lies in not wanting to leave the house messy; the theory being that it's so much nicer to come home to a clean house. (Which makes sense, I guess, but it used to drive me crazy when I was a kid. My mom had four kids. The house was never clean.) Every summer we would take a family camping trip and every summer the four of us kids would sit in the car, fuming, while Mom ran around the house making beds, dusting, folding laundry, etc and Dad tried to convince her that she didn't actually need to have a spotless house to enjoy her holiday.
I kind of get it, now. You come home to a clean slate. There's a certain appeal to it.
Our flight to the Dominican was scheduled to leave Vancouver at 6am Saturday morning. Because we were travelling in large group, and due to the multiple cancellations and re-bookings and general craziness the Swine Flu caused, we were advised to arrive at the airport at 3am. There really wasn't any point in going to bed and so, after the puppies were dropped off and we were packed, I cleaned the condo. I didn't even realize that I was channelling my mother at the time; it just made sense. I don't often identify with my mom. I tend to attribute my negative personality traits to her (the crazy, the guilt, the shrillness.) It catches me by surprise when I see her in my actions.
I scrubbed; I mopped; I laundered and I vacuumed up every last bit of Stella's hair. And it felt damn good when we got home at 3:30 in the morning, after 19 hours of travelling and a week of sun and too much alcohol, to climb into a bed made with freshly laundered sheets.