My house is a disaster.
Like every single room has STUFF scattered about.
Tiny pants, pieces of LEGO, socks, random forks.
Our beds aren’t made and our laundry is never put away.
People DON’T live like this—I scream that at myself (read: my kids) every single day.
Friends can’t spontaneously drop by.
Every morning someone is missing something.
I leave the house each and every day in a huff.
I try to do better and be better and live better, but the reality is I can’t keep up.
And the best part of it all? Mess causes me immense anxiety.
Like crawling out of my skin, get me a new place to live, I can’t function in this CRAP HOLE anxiety.
I’ve tried purging.
I’ve tried organizing.
I’ve tried shelves and bins and baskets.
And yet, tiny pants, pieces of LEGO, socks, random forks, they’re scattered all about.
It drives me mad.
Yesterday, as I was sitting on a couch with a light dusting of crumbs under my butt, looking at the filth before me, I thought, “If it wasn’t messy, it would be clean—and that would be kind of sad.”
The truth is, I can’t stand the mess.
I’m not sure anyone else lives like this.
But one day, it’s going to be clean.
And I think clean will probably mean quiet.
And I’m not ready for THAT kind of quiet.
So for now, I’ll continue to walk around (completely pointlessly) putting socks and pants and forks and CRAP back in its place in exchange for hugs and goodnight kisses and tending to sweet little voices at their every beck and call.
Because in my house at least, you can’t have one without the other.
So, I guess we just live like THIS.