I’m sitting in my living room. A room that I’d love to tell you was company ready — with pillows propped up and toys put away. But, no, instead it’s a room with brown throw pillows on the floor and a bag of blocks partially dumped out and a math book left on the couch. There’s a stack of homeschool books and a cowboy hat on top of them. My hall closet door is open and I see piles of shoes — summer shoes — waiting to be put away.
I’m okay with it.
For too long I’ve stressed about needing to have things perfect – you know, the magazine type of perfect with the super-cute color coded bins, and spotless couch and grinning kids. I’d want things so neat and tight and orderly that it became suffocating. I’d see one of the little ones grab a game and I’d immediately tell them, do not dump it out because I just cleaned. Then I’d look back and I’d see their face. Sad. Not understanding. After all, I had just told them to find something to do yet I wanted them to be busy without actually being able to do anything.
Children need to play.
They make messes.
That concept is hard for my I like everything neat and organized and labeled type brain. After all, I have bins for markers, and crayons, and colored pencils, and pastels, and watercolors, and well, you get it – I like everything to have it’s place.
I use that need for perfection as a way to cope with life.
Yes, you read that right. I can use cleaning and organizing as a way to escape from doing the hard stuff. Instead of getting on my knees in prayer I’d be down in the laundry room sorting through those marker boxes looking for the lone colored pencils. Or I’d be up in the boys’ room going through boxes carefully removing the legos and lincoln logs from the box of army men. I’d keep myself busy – I’m cleaning – was my reason to those around. And I’d think I was doing the noble thing so my response was typically I’ll get to you in a minute.
The minutes never came.
I could easily spend the entire day with projects and cleaning and organizing. Then when the house wasn’t the ideal way I’d find myself exasperated and overwhelmed and using the excuse, I just can’t relax when it’s messy reason. And yes, it’s true, it IS harder for me to rest if it’s not clean. But that is a choice. I’ve had to learn that at this stage in my life striving to have my home perfect actually takes away from me as a mother and robs me of joy.
So tonight, as I type this, I am sitting relaxed in my living room. It’s a living room that is not perfect – I really need a new couch and a new area rug and there are some toys around, but you know, it’s okay. This is the space that I’ve been blessed with now. And so what that there’s a pillow and blocks on the floor. I’ll just pick it up when I’m done, and I’ll move that math book to the table {because we’ll use it in the morning} and I’ll put the cowboy hat in the toy box. I have to let it go.
My family matters more.
They need me with a heart that loves them no matter what — a heart that can be engaged with them that is not dependent upon the state of this home. Do I love it clean? Absolutely yes. Is it okay to work to keep it clean? Again absolutely yes. But, I will not, cannot, and refuse to allow an ideal take away from me as their mom.
Before I know it they will be grown and my home empty.
Then I will long for these days of imperfection.
And I will remember them as perfect.