By Peyton Garland 
Just leave them. That’s what my brain suggested, which is quite the intrusive thought for a mama who needs an orderly, sanitized space to keep what little mental clarity she has these days. But my mind reiterated: Just leave them. So I left those little fingerprint smudges on the television and all over the windows upstairs and downstairs.
If you wipe them away, they may never come back. The thought was no longer intrusive but instinctive, my brain protecting my heart, savoring every bit of evidence that my house has been littered and loved by a romping, roaring baby boy who holds my world in his hands.
Whether we feel pressure from our mother-in-law, social media, or a well-meaning neighbor, many of us mothers believe the state of our homes reflects the state of our motherhood. A messy home must mean a messy job of mothering. Oh, sweet mama, don’t believe such a lie.
Of course, this doesn’t mean we ditch our cleaning routine or neglect to teach our little ones how to pick up after themselves. However, it does mean we shouldn’t be so obsessed with tidying up the house all day, every day that our home is no longer a safe haven.
The couch was made for everyone to prop their feet on to read a book together or watch a favorite television show. (And if you’re feeling up for it, you can welcome the family pets up there too.)
The dining room table was meant to be eaten on—even on spaghetti night with a toddler or when your teenage sons haphazardly slosh cereal everywhere.
The bathroom was made for wet floors while the kiddos splish and splash in the tub and parents flip a coin for who folds the laundry.
Like it or not, stairs were meant to be skied, sledded, or slid down. Refrigerators were meant to keep that homemade slime alive for days (or years). And windows were made for fingerprint smudges, the ones where curiosity got the better of a little one looking at the birds outside.
Our homes are a testament to life, proof that human beings are taking up space. In a world plagued by isolation—physically, emotionally, mentally, and even spiritually—this gift of presence is unmatched. Better yet, if we shift our focus from pristine to peaceful, cleaning the house is no longer a bitter chore but a chance to whisper little prayers of thanks.
Thank you, God, for those dirty paw prints and the leftover popcorn decorating my couch. There’s nothing I love more than watching my kids snuggle their dog.
Thank you, God, that we are blessed with healthy, tasty food and can gather together to enjoy it while we catch up on each other’s day.
Thank you, God, for those precious bubble bath mustaches my kids love wearing . . . and thanks that hubby lost the coin toss and took care of the laundry.
Thank you, God, for the pitters and patters and clinging and clatters and slime and grime and messes that make this house a home. We live here—truly live here—and I’m so grateful you let so many wonderful hearts beat and simply be here in this space.
A less-than-perfect home, one with smushed banana in the carpet and dirty jackets ornamenting the stairs, might be your key to true peace, the kind birthed from gratitude that has the power to still your restless mind.
So put down the scrub brush, turn off the vacuum, put away the squirt bottle, take a moment to soak up the memories in your home, and say a prayer of thanks, mama.
by Jodi McDonnell 
by Edith Runion 
by Sarah Trombley 
