I think I spend most of my time at home cleaning. Picking up toys, papers, taking out the rubbish, trying to find the washing machine under the piles of dirty clothes. It never seems to end. There’s always something.
And it does my head in, the constant mess that is spread from one end of the house to the other. The piles of “I’ll put that away later”. But I guess that’s what you get when you have two small humans, two large humans and a dog living in the one place. That’s what you get when you both run your own businesses from home, work a full-time job and have two kids under seven.
But someone asked me the other day, what’s wrong with mess? Mess means we were home together. Mess means we spent time together. Mess means we’ve done something other than stare at a TV or a smartphone or a computer. Mess means we’ve enjoyed our time, made memories, played a game, drew a picture, played with cars, built a train track. Dirty dishes mean we ate a wonderful meal together, dirty clothes mean we went somewhere, a dirty floor means we brought some of the outside into our home.
I don’t mean that we live in a mess and should just leave it. It just means that life is messy. And that’s OK.