This is my life my friends. The laundry hamper that can't seem to make it to it's home on top of the dryer. The lego container sitting in the middle of the floor. Wii accessories helter skelter, with the drawer where they belong still open. Pillows all in a pile on the couch rather than in their artistically strategic places. A folder that should be in a backpack ready for tomorrow. The ottoman covered in a bunch of stuff.
I could go crazy and make every one's life miserable by having them put it all away right when it's bedtime. But I decided a long time ago that my home would never be a museum. We LIVE here.
So, when you come to my house, remember that we LIVE here. Which means crumbs, shoes, balled up socks, and headbands strewn about. Perhaps someday, when my children are gone, I'll have one of those houses. You know, those spotless, immaculate, beautifully decorated, sweet smelling, vacuum lines still on the carpet, houses. But I'm good with this. Besides, true happiness isn't a perfect home. It's this regular old life stuff.
Great post. I once heard Dr. Laura tell of a women who called up complaining about her husband leaving his socks on the floor. Another lady called up saying that her husband had died and that she wishes his socks were on the floor cause that would mean he would still be alive.
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