prep for pop

so it's the night before my dad arrives. i should be getting ready -- final prep -- vacuuming, dusting, emptying those two final boxes that sit in front of the fireplace taunting me everytime i walk in the door. but no, instead i sit here and type and try to think of ways to procrastinate.

i mean, he *is* my father: he changed my diapers, cleaned my room when i refused to, he even (probably) did my laundry, he drove me to college, he drove me home from college, he comforted me when i lost my job in college. he's seen me at my best: cheered me on when i got my first job, moved me into my first apartment, and out of it, moved me into my apt in brooklyn, and drove me to texas when i decided new york had taken enough of me.

so what's a couple of un-emptied boxes in the living room? and those dirty dishes in the sink? and gallon of paint that hasn't quite made it back to the garage? and the drop cloth in the hallway which should also be in the garage...and...and...and...

i'm sure he'll look past all of it, and just see how happy i am. and as he has always done, cheer me on for owning my first home and see the beauty in it beyond the scattered messes. and then, when we've had a chance to catch up, he'll help me empty those boxes, put the paint away, clean the dishes, and help make a dinner for us that we will both remember because it will be the first one we share in my new home.