PenPenWrites

Paterfamlias and I are arguing. To pull or not to pull the weeds. PF wants to sheer them down–they are almost as high as he is. I say, hands off. The reason: the weeds in question sit on a small plot in front of our daughter's home and, for all we know, may not be weeds. We are there, a day ahead of her return from spending a year abroad.  The plan is to meet her at the airport–not just her but the dog, the husband, our Grand and a ton of luggage–and help them settle back into their home. But also to make the beds and buy some basic groceries to see them through the first night and morning.

So there we are at her house–some 400 miles from ours. The tenant-for-the-year has departed and left the house clean. So we don't have to worry about that. And yes,  if this were our house, those weeds or whatever they are would be pulled or shorn. But it is not our house. We are not the gardeners in charge. And that's what I struggle to remember. We–PF and I–see all kinds of things we want to do to the house–buy new blinds [the tenant left one ripped],  a new cloth for the kitchen table [we can't find hers] and the list goes on: a bathroom rug, new towels for the guest bathroom, chairs for the front porch. It's all we can do to contain ourselves. But we must.

To do all we would like to do would be to put our imprint on her house. It would be to forget whose house it is and that it is an implied criticism to go out and make decisions–and take actions–about her house without asking her.

So we resist. The weeds stand tall;the kitchen table, bare. But the next day, when I mention to Alpha daughter that we had almost bought chairs for the front porch, she says, "That would have been nice."

Maybe I'm too busy worrying about being intrusive and not enough just going with the heart and the instinct to be helpful. Still searching for that fine line.