Thursday, March 1, 2012

Home is where the mess is.

I know that most people say "home is where the heart is" but, in my case, my heart is in pieces scattered across the country and carried in the pockets of the people I love. Instead, I find that home is where the mess is. The dinner dishes piled in the sink, laundry to fold, Legos scattered on the floor, composition books filled with child-like drawings of animals tucked into the couch, books stacked on headboards and end tables and furry dust bunnies lurking in every corner. To me, this is the sign of a home that is lived in.

Sometimes I wish my house was that perfect home that was always clean and presentable in case someone wanted to just drop by. However, I'm realistic. I have kids, pets, a husband and multiple health issues that force me to clean in spurts. Plus, who's really dropping by my house? My family is multiple states away (and in multiple states), as are my friends. My husband's family is also some distance away, except for his mother with whom we don't speak. Instead, I let my house be lived in by the people who live, and love, here. If someone drops by, they'll just have to understand that we're busy having fun!

So, this is my life. A yard filled with swings, a trampoline, a "clubhouse", shoes and toys tossed haphazardly on the ground, chairs that are never in the same place twice and a trash can that our crazy dog seems to think is her personal toy. I wouldn't change it for the world.

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