A Messy House Says Everything

Every day it’s the same chaos, the same mess —open the door to find books laying around the house just waiting to become overdue fines since they will be lost by morning. The thought crosses my mind to relax on the couch, but, apparently the cushions are being destroyed by the kids somewhere. Scanning the cool stove, I see the girls run by in Play Clothes; obviously, she didn’t dress them today.

The thought occurs to me, nothing is taken care of, the house is a disaster —what must my wife do all day, anyway?

Every day it’s the same. I wake up thinking, “Today is going to be a great day —I’m going to get on top of this Parenting thing,” and then before I know it, the kids are fighting over books that just end up on the floor. If I’m not cleaning up something, I’m cleaning up someone. By lunch, I’m exhausted and I can’t even lay down because my son has confiscated the couch cushions, wherever those ended up. All the girls do is rifle through each other’s clothes, changing their outfit every five minutes.

Hearing the door open reminds me that nothing is ready for Dinner, the house is a disaster, and I failed again —what did I do all day, anyway?

As the day winds down I can’t wait to leave the office behind, pull in to home, and, sometimes, but not always, but usually more often than not, open the door to an oddly beautiful constellation of books on the floor; I know our love of reading is being passed on to the kids —what adventures they must be dreaming of! The living room is always just that —a room for living— as my son has usually made some sort of a fort or space ship out of the cushions. As tired as I am, my heart always skips a beat when I see my girls come running out in their Princess Dresses and mismatched shoes; memories that I am certain will come rushing back when we’re dancing at her wedding someday.

I’m reminded that the order of a house is never what makes a home —it’s always her. My wife, their mother. She gives everything she has, all day long; it’s not a mess, it’s a picture of life being lived, of kids dreaming wild dreams and running because they can.

And, I find that a cold stove is the perfect place to make PB&J’s —keeps the counter from getting dirty.

I love you, T. You’re the best.

Words by Justin Heap. Even more at justinpheap.co .

Photo courtesy of Flamingo House, Flickr

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