this old house.

there’s always a quilt in the middle of the floor.  toys scattered around.  no matter how many times a day i sweep and mop, cheerios litter the floor and peanut butter stains the coffee table and the couch.  the house always seems in complete disarray even though i constantly seem to be picking things up, wiping things off, and putting things away.  nothing is where it should be.  sippy cups full of overpriced organic whole milk are found sitting behind the toilet (what?! i don’t even want to know).  rubber footballs are found in the tupperware drawer.  the tupperware is found on the deck. 

i am a person who thrives on cleaniness and order.  when i walk through the house and step in baby vomit, smash cereal into the wood, or see lincoln find a piece of toast under the bed and eat it, life feels heavy.   it’s probably the hardest part for me.  i could go without sleep and listen to the screams if i came home to my marble countertops shining every evening.  if the wood floors glistened and the bathroom tile was spotless i could endure almost anything. 

it’s the piles of baby clothes in the bathroom and the scraps of food that fell off them stuck in the rug or the constant wet spots on the bathroom floor from the dripping baby tub that make me sigh and shake my head.    i know it seems like an easy fix.  pick up.  get a routine.  dry the floor with a towel.  i do pick up.  we have more routines than an olympic ice skater.  but i have an un-picker-upper following closely behind knocking over whatever i straighten.  i gather up the recycle-ables and throw them in the bin, i barely walk out of the room before i see lincoln taking the cans out one by one and lining them up next to the computer.  i shake my head and keep walking.  i grab a towel to dry the bathroom floor and mid swipe hear stella scream.  i go to investigate and find the towel a day later under a pile of mini people clothes.  i pop the bathroom rug into the dryer to suck out the food particles (particles that seem to just constantly fall from the babies, they get food stuck in the craziest places.  how in earth do you get cheerios in your crack when you wear a diaper, a onsie, tights, and pants?) and as i stare in glee at it’s freshness, lincoln slides into the bathroom and drops a cereal bar on the floor, then trips and his knee lands on top of it breaking it into a million sticky crumbly pieces.  whatever.  i’ll clean next week.

a clean house used to be all i had.  i spent hours pouring over color swatches and magazine clippings.  finding the perfect angle of the chairs.  crazy, i know, but as i stated earlier the aesthetic experience of my home made me happy.  i don’t have a clean house anymore.  i have toast under the bed, dripped milk from sippy cups EVERYWHERE and piles of laundry.  i step over toys and into day old peanut butter.  but i also have little feet pattering around.  i have a crazy blond, curly-haired boy that lights up the room.  i  have peels of laughter.  i have the naked bodies that shed all dirty clothes dancing around, food falling from them as they tap dance and squirm around the house. 

 my house isn’t very pretty anymore, but my home is beautiful.  and it’s worth having peanut butter in your toes.

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