A child walked into a house today and made the declaration, “Oh my gosh, whatever you’re cooking smells amazing!”
It was my house. This was one of my children. And she wasn’t fishing for concert tickets, car keys, or a puppy.
My house is cluttered. Currently, my railing is sporting two weeks worth of clean laundry that somehow made it through the washer and dryer, but failed to hook up with the hangers from whence they once came. I have unsorted socks on a chair in my bedroom, and while part of me thinks I really need to get them done, my cat has declared herself king of that mountain and I haven’t the heart to dethrone her.
The dresser in my bedroom has three stacks of books on it. And I have a Kindle. There may also be a package of unopened Valentine pretzels among those stacks. Don’t judge.
More often than not (and especially this week), dinner is supplied from a local takeaway restaurant. My kids are as familiar with the menus of the local Italian, Chinese, Japanese, and pizza restaurants as they are their times tables (and these are some times table smart girls).
Having a kid walk in this well loved, well worn, well lived in home and claim that anything was amazing? That’s what perfect is all about.