I shoveled out a spot on the couch to plop down and write a quick post. Toddler toys, burp rags, the past 10 days of mail, cracker crumbs, and dirty clothes all went flying. I considered picking everything up and one by one finding a home for it all, but I decided to let it go. After all, I do well to get 30 minutes a day to myself these days. Today, I apparently wanted to spend it writing a post to my blog, a therapuetic outlet for me.
Those who know me very well (and some who only sorta know me) are likely to know what a perfectionist I am. If you were ever at my house pre-Zoe days, you might have commented on how clean my house was. Especially if you were one of my friends with kids. At the time I did not fully understand what all the hype was about. I just liked my house clean. I didn't understand about goldfish cracker crumbs ground into the carpet or juice stains on the floor, or just toys, toys, toys everywhere and never being able to keep up on putting things back in their respective places. Now I understand. My friends don't come to my home and comment anymore about how spotless it is. Some days it gets to me. Those are the days when I'm well enough rested to 1) notice 2) give a hoot.
The other day I put on my professional counselor hat and reminded myself of the advice I once gave a client: that a less than spotless home at that particular stage in her life indicated that her priorities were likely in the proper order and to give herself a break. Sometimes it's hard to take our own advice. Nevertheless, I try to remind myself lately that a cluttered home at this point in my life reflects that my priorities are in the right order. Paying attention to my kids, napping when the moment allows it, and giving myself some permission for down time are all more important at this stage of my life than being able to eat my breakfast off the floor. Although, if I wanted to, there are probably enough cracker crumbs on the carpet to provide a solid breakfast should I decide to partake.