My mind wants clean. Uncluttered. Well-groomed and organized.
Instead, my eyes see toys everywhere. Granola bar wrappers and doll shoes in a bag with baby blankets. Paper, markers and scissors make a trail from one end of the house to the other. While I'm diligently working on one room, the next is being utterly destroyed. I feel disrespected and irritated.
|oh, no, no, no, no, no...this is unacceptable|
And then the anxiety creeps in.
I mentally compare my rooms with those I see online and in the catalogues. Have I lost my touch? I'll NEVER get there.
My husband says it's because people don't actually live in catalogues or in those rooms online. It's a pretty picture, reflecting a second-long snapshot of what really goes on between the time a flock of designers decend and when they pack up their things and depart, leaving a blank, vacant space.
Most of the time his good judgement falls on deaf ears, because I've already decided in my head how my house should look--and by the way, this ain't it.
Sometimes I dream of what my house would look like if I didn't have people always messing it up (because I am never the one to blame in that regard ;)). It would be beautiful. Sophisticated. It'd probably be all white with vintage charm and personal touches. I'd be able to paint it all the colors I love, and then repaint it when I change my mind. In my dream world, everything would be absolutely perfect.
And lonely. Maybe even a little bit sad.
Because as annoyed as I feel over the fact that certain members of my family would be more comfortable in a pig sty, I love the sound of their feet running down the stairs in the morning. Their laughter makes a cold night warmer and their hugs and kisses melt my heart. When they are sad, it breaks my heart and when they are happy, I'm elated.
Sticky, syrupy kisses, one more hug goodnight, watching him run like the wind through the field behind our house, peeking in at her taking special care of her babies...these are moments I treasure in my heart. And when I am old and gray and I no longer care so much about whether the living room rug matches the couch, I'll be able to pull these memories off the shelf of my mind and remember fondly how her pink her cheeks would get when she played outside in the snow.
As I go back upstairs to finish cleaning up yet another mess, I'll mentally remember all the good times we had playing here--together.
(And on Sunday, my kids have a big project to do revolving around ideas like clean and organize and responsibility and Goodwill.)