|Parking lots for the OCD-inclined can be found tucked into random corners of my entire home.|
The battle to contain the mess used to really stress me out to no end. I have always had this vision of what my home would be like: uncluttered, organized, welcoming, warm, cozy, well decorated and coordinating in every sense. For the first few years, I was able to maintain a pretty convincing facade. The dishes were always done and put away...as was the laundry. All of Wyatt's toys were separated into awesome little bins, and we'd always put away one mess before creating another. I always rushed to tidy up as soon as anything else caught his interest. I obsessively vacuumed and mopped and dusted and polished. My house was perfect. But my son was bored, and I was depressed. The depression lasted a couple of years, ebbing and flowing, until I finally started getting to the root of its cause: the constant struggle for unattainable perfection.
|Evidence of my kid everywhere. It's inescapable.|
So I decided to just see what would happen if I relaxed a bit. I saw how much more Wyatt's creativity and imagination blossomed when he was allowed to have completely unstructured play, making giant messes in the process. I realized how he would come back to something he'd walked away from a few hours before, and find an entirely new way to play with what he'd left behind. He began making collage art from scraps of previous art projects that I didn't maniacally throw away as soon as they left the scissors' blade. My boy was set free...and so was I.
|So that's where those are...nothing ever in its place.|
|An every day occurrence.|
|He said this is going to be a "real size picture of me." We go through so much tape and paper in this house, it isn't even funny.|
Another thing I've had to embrace: not constantly apologizing for living in the home that we live in. I mean, come on. My house will probably never again consistently look like company is about to come over. About once a month, during the school year, every single thing is in its place. Every dish is washed and put away....laundry, too. Every bed is made. The dust has been conquered. Horizontal surfaces are visible. Then, my guys come home and we live here. Dishes get dirty, clothes get worn, things get put down where they didn't start. It's okay. Why I felt the need to explain away these very normal happenings of life, I'll never know.
|Wyatt lives here.|
|And here. He takes great pride in his collections of stuff.|
|A Kratt brother has been here...|
And let's be real: not every mess can be blamed on Wyatt. I get lazy about putting things away, too. Sometimes I'd rather read a few chapters of a good book than unload/load the dishwasher. I've been known to totally skip folding and putting away a load of laundry until the next time around. I don't make my bed every single day anymore. I have often waited until the number of roly poly corpses is beyond ridiculous before I haul out the vacuum. I'm human. And I live here. And I'm not sorry.
|My bathroom after the Sunday morning rush.|
|There's still space on the counter...not an emergency yet.|