I really wish I was one of those people who loved to clean.
While we’re at it, I wish I was one of those people who loved to run.
But, alas, I am neither.
And, okay…if I’m being honest?
I don’t really want to be a neat freak or a runner.
I just want the results of being one.
Pssssstttt…Marshall! This is what our room looks like when it’s clean. Who knew?
Every single day, all day long I pick up.
I pick up toys.
I pick up dishes.
I pick up clothes.
I pick up books.
I pick up men.
(And women, actually.)
(Little men and women, that is.)
I pick up trash.
I pick up…you get the point.
It is exhausting to constantly be battling the clutter.
I’ve followed the suggestions of fancy organization people.
I’ve set up system after system:
Labelled boxes, baskets, hanging compartments.
I’ve tried it all.
And for approximately 3.637 minutes, everything is happily tucked away in its home
And it looks great.
But then one small person grabs this and another grabs that.
And then they play with this and that.
And then they trade this and that.
And then this person thinks that that person should put this away.
And the other person thinks that the other person should put that away.
But neither person thinks that they are responsible for the putting up of either item
Because either “I didn’t have it last” or “I didn’t get it out”.
And all that clutter finds its way onto the table and the counter and the “save box”.
(By the way, Lydia, you can’t put every single thing you’ve ever made in the save box!)
And in trying to fight that clutter, I produce my own.
And it piles up onto of the other clutter
And before I know it, we haven’t eaten off the table in well over a month.
I currently can’t see my kitchen counters.
Nor can you access our breakfast table.
It is more common to have them this way than cleared and accessible.
Very frequently we will all work together to clean their room before nap time.
But by the time Marshall gets home from work, it’s a disaster area.
I’m shocked that we haven’t yet had a trip to the ER.
(Did I just jinx myself?)
It is maddening.
And not only does this drive me insane,
But sometimes I get downright angry.
I JUST cleaned up!
How in the world did this happen so quickly????
So, you neat freaks and domestic goddessses…
I don’t want it to be perfect,
But how do I at least get it to be manageable?
I’m not seeking a magazine-worthy home.
I just want to walk to the bathroom without falling over pieces of train track and baby dolls.