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.
“One of the advantages of being disorganized is that one is always having surprising discoveries.”
― A.A. Milne
When I worked outside of the home, my desk was immaculate. Everything had a place, and everything was in it’s place at all times. Of course, the desk was entirely mine. I didn’t have to share it with anyone, and I didn’t have anyone who felt like they could come and dump there crap here – which apparently, I do not have at home.
So what I end up with is a desk that serves as a catch-all. Papers from school? I get them. Books and magazines that someone can’t reach to put on their book shelves? They end up here. Stuff no one is sure what to do with? Dump it on Mommy’s desk and either we’ll never see it again, or Mommy will figure out what to do with it.
Done. Today, I am finished being the toxic wasteland of crap my kids can’t – or won’t – put away. I am taking back the one space in the house I feel I shouldn’t have to share.
My desk. The operative word being MY.
I’d like to see the pictures I so lovingly chose frames for so I had the people I love happily smiling at me when I’m in the middle of a 7,243 page term paper on a topic I don’t understand. I’d like to see the stiletto tape dispenser that was a Christmas gift from someone who still remembers me (and pictures me) from the days when my shoe wardrobe wasn’t primarily Crocs and sneakers. I’d love to be able to look at the votive holder turned pencil holder that my sister Bean made at the pottery shop not long before she died.
And by the end of the hour, I will be able to do all of those things. I mean it. So help me Jeebus.
Here are a few of the before pictures – and I’ll post some afters later today!
Here are the AFTER pictures!!! YAY me! Now I dare a child to lay one finger on this desk – the finger will be removed, and the child placed on a Greyhound bus with a tag that says, “Return to Sender, Destination Unknown”.