When I was a young adult, I had my own apartment. It was tidy every day. I loved it. The solitude. The quiet. The cleanliness. I must have eventually become bored (although I have absolutely no recollection of that feeling) because . . .
Then I got married and had children, sharing a house with my husband and toddlers. My home was messy. Every. Day. It used to drive me nuts. I swear I spent most of my brain power on either fantasizing about my pre-child days or on managing my passive-aggressive anger toward the entire messy clan. I finally got over it.
The water-resistant sun block coming from nowhere..
The turning point came when I realized that
A) children are messy. They are messy because neatness isn’t really necessary for them to flourish. In fact, the opposite is true. And
B) the house is reasonably sanitary and organized, in spite of “them” (read: it’s not ME that’s the problem). That extra little bit that makes it “perfect” for me is what was putting me into a spin. So, I let go.
The result? On a good day, my family is creative, growing, happy, interested in life, responsible for their own things. My house is where the neighborhood kids come to play. As I type, there are 3 more kids in my floor.
On a bad day? Well, let’s not go there.
I don’t miss that tidy, quiet apartment anymore. Not often, anyway. Organized is planned. Tidy is structured. Everything in its place is predictable. But messy is spontaneous, unexpected, fun, and creative. It makes me feel young.
Which might explain why so many grandparents (like my mom) don’t seem to mind having their grandchildren’s things ooze all over their house . . . .
