The other day a couple of neighbor kids came traipsing through the house. I was in the bedroom when I overheard this assessment from one of them: "Your house is messy... But it's awesome!"
Now, when a 7-year-old boy notices your lack of general tidiness, well, there's no real positive spin you can put on it. But the second part was as nice to hear as the first part was hard to.
He's right, of course, about it being messy. On any given day, there is a miniature Nascar race reinactment paused somewhere in the living room. We're not talking one or two cars -- we're talking two or three dozen. (To be fair, they are often lined up quite neatly... just on the floor.) You will alsofind books strewn about anywhere someone might have felt like plopping down to read for a few minutes. I swear, some public libraries have fewer books than our boys -- but the libraries do a better job of keeping them shelved. You're also likely to find an easel out and/or some artwork or project drying somewhere. The dining room table is either in the process of being cleared so we can eat, or defiantly covered with someone's crafty project -- my scrapbooking (rarely) or the boys' you-name-it.
The walls? Well, at adult eye level, it's a photo gallery of a certain set of twin boys you may have heard of. At kid-level, the walls are covered with the original artwork by those same boys. I don't keep every single thing they draw, paste or otherwise create. But I sort of feel like if they make it, well, it deserves to be displayed for a little while at least. So the walls are a constantly rotating exhibit of their work.
So messy? Yup. Guilty. But to be honest, I kind of feel bad for kids who don't get to live with a little bit of a mess. Because life is messy. And fun. And you ought to have the things you love -- whether it's books, homemade art or tiny race cars around you and out where you can enjoy them as much as possible.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
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1 comment:
Good for you cheryl.
Our house is in a constant state of entropy. And the worst day seems to be friday, as Gary and I slam in from another week, ignore the dishes in the sink, the overflow of recyclables under the table in the kitchen and the dining room table that is stacked with bills, artwork, homework, junk mail and freelance notes. A similar stack resides by the computer in the TV room, along with a stack of papers.
Piles of clothes in various stages of cleanliness are in a pile by the drier. And the truly clean clothes are stacked on the living room couch.
I've visted Jennifer's friends, and some are like our house, and others are spotless. I'm suspicious of the latter.
BC
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